by the channel in Dalyan, lounging on the deck with Der Steppenwolf. Much of it reads as teenage froth after The Magic Mountain – that book will throw a long shadow – but it’s got a few sections where he stares deeper into the heart of the wolfman. It’s not the right tempo with the heat and the boats chugging by, the carvings in the cliff, the sips of Turkish coffee. I should have stayed longer, brought other books, should have spent a week by the lake channel to the sea. But we were out to Istanbul after two days, to a thin terrace between the crumbling chimneys and the gulls, the air-con boxes and pipes, the roof slope disarray and bottles of Efes Pilsner Reserve, salted almonds in white bowls and cut views of the blue waterways. I should have stayed longer in that place too, with the street cats. Always rushing on, no time for my terrible drawing, no time for strategy.