David Hewson
David Hewson
David Hewsonis a contemporary British author of mystery novels. His series of mysteries, featuring police officers In Rome, led by the young detective and art lover Nic Costa, began with A Season for the Dead, has now been contracted to run to at least nine instalments by British, American, European and Asian publishers. The author's debut novel, Shanghai Thunder, was published by Robert Hale, in the United Kingdom, in 1986. Almost all copies of the book were sent to libraries,...
NationalityBritish
ProfessionAuthor
Date of Birth9 January 1953
There is an argument for believing that the entire process of writing a piece of fiction is simply a thinly-controlled and highly-internalised nervous breakdown designed, with a bit of luck, to produce something worthwhile at the end.
In Filey, you eat early to prepare for the highlight of the evening: social intercourse of a kind one thought relegated to Stanley Holloway monologues.
Historically, Macbeth is one of the greatest kings Scotland ever had. He was on the throne for 19 years, and he simply has this dreadful reputation because Shakespeare manipulated history for the benefit of James I, who was paying him to write the play to blacken Macbeth's name.
Scarborough never really began to live until the summer of 1964 when the Beatles played the Futurist Theatre, and no one in the audience, least of all me, heard anything but the screaming.
Most visitors to Amsterdam will wander into the red-light district out of sheer curiosity. The narrow streets are mostly safe day and night - just don't try to take pictures of the women working in the windows.
Romney Marsh remains one of the last great wildernesses of south-east England. Flat as a desert, and at times just as daunting, it is an odd, occasionally eerie wetland straddling the coastal borders of Kent and Sussex, rich in birds, local folklore and solitary medieval churches.
In their vanity men focus on what they wish to hear and miss the hidden meaning, the lurking threat.
It's a long ride home with nothing but me for company. I bore myself sometimes. Not often. Just now and again.
The only sheets I'll ever long for are my own.
What must be done must be done, whatever the price, the cost, the pain. One day we all must walk through fire.
A nation's not a child, for God's sake. ... It's like a wild horse you tame by breaking it. Or a fiery woman you slap till she sees sense and warms your bed.
Talking to Lee Child and discovering, from his chapter in The Chopin Manuscript, that he's even more of an audio geek than I am (as his chapter in Chopin proves).
There are any number of reasons for visiting Filey. The beach is clean, long, and rarely crowded. The countryside is bold and handsome, with one maritime feature that deserves to be better known: the long, thin rock finger of the Brigg, pointing into the chilly grey waters of the North Sea.
Authors do this for a living, and if you take their work for nothing, you are depriving them of a living.