Raymond West

I move in the smartest circles London has to offer—literary lunches, avant-garde salons, and all the clever talk you could want. My novels dissect society with surgical precision, or so I’m told. But for all my theories, my aunt Jane, with her knitting and flower shows, sees more in a glance than I do in a thousand pages. I visit her often. I tell myself it’s affection. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s humility.