I bounded up the steps into the main piazza of the town and
there was the familiar lion with its left paw hooked over a shield,
stone wings splayed stiffly in the windless air. I stood stock-still,
sweating heavily. I recognized it at once. It was the very same lion
as the one hidden in the overgrown rose garden at Mawle.
At this distance the ruddy three-story brick front of the
house seems shrunken, its ten slender pilasters, pedimented door,
and Ionian bosses pathetically out of place, as if stuck on the face
of an apple that has shriveled too long in the sun. There is no going
back. All that is left to me now is self-imposed banishment
from the one place where I have been happy. Perversely, patchily,
but undeniably happy. I want to confess, to confess it all; and perhaps,
if there is timeif I can bring myself to do it, if I have the
courageto say goodbye.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...