I am the tale of a quixotic boy whose rather large head is filled with pretty notions of romance and idealism. This boy is a self-professed Francophile and bibliophile and is, as such, at present studying English literature and French in an institution of education bang-smack in the centre of Dublin (Trinity). To what end, he knows not and when on buses whose windows are suitably covered in condensation, this boy is most likely to scrawl “How will it end?”. Were you to infiltrate this boy's room under cover of darkness – which I certainly hope you would not do, unless you were coming as my secret lover or Clément Sibony – you would note, among other things, many books, a poster of Paris and many scraps of paper. You may also notice, as I, the boy, emit Zs, that I sometimes talk in my sleep and, other times, mouth words without actually speaking, but am, on the whole, adorable, which you would of course think, being my lover come under veil of shadow to make yourself known to me in a way worthy of a novel (for if you are not he, what are you doing in my room?).
The boy, it may help you to know, has often expressed the desire to be a writer for a reason that is yet to be understood.
