The Telegraph has finally said what we (read: I) all (read: me, again) knew to be true. Smoking bans kill literature—in this case, English lit. Overblown poppycock, you say? Bollox. Tongue-in-cheek, it may be, but read this and feel shame for the last time you selfishly complained that fear of inoperable cancer was ruining your Yorkshire pudding. Here’s a taste:
This attack on basic liberty, which was allowed through without any significant protest, might mark the end not merely of smoking, but of literature.
A little over the top? Perhaps. Or maybe is not nearly a little over the top enough1.
1 In the spirit of full disclosure, I should say that I am, indeed, a smoker; I romanticize death by consumption; I sternly believe that etc.; etc.; etc., . . .
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