![]() ![]() ![]() It does not take the reader long to realise we are being inundated with a kind of symphony of the overheard. Like Gilbert and Sullivan’s wand’ring minstrel, Toothwort is a thing of shreds and patches and the ballads, songs and snatches he feasts on soon turn into distinctly un-dreamy lullabies. The book then becomes typographically daring, as the words weave over the page, curling, crossing each other out, almost hiccupping from the straight line. We start with the supernatural Dead Papa Toothwort, shape-shifting through the village as an engineer in a Day-Glo jacket, an exhaust pipe, a “pink-strangled” lamb, a tracksuit, a dinner jacket, a rusty car-bonnet. ![]()
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