From On the Black Hill, by Bruce Chatwin
HIS HAND
"He tried his hand at writing a novel about his wartime experiences. The strain of composition tired him: after twenty minutes of left-handed scribbling, he would be staring out of the window -- at the lawn, the rain and the hill. He longed to live in a tropical country and he longed for a tumbler of whisky."
From Chapter XXVI
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