In 1984, Ed Morgan was sixty-one years old. This fact surprised him, sometimes, in the particular way that age surprises a man who still feels inside like the person he was at thirty, or forty, or twenty-eight standing in a San Francisco alley watching the fabric of reality tear open and dump him into a world he did not understand. He had lived in England for thirty-three years. He had outlasted the law that had once criminalised his existence. He had published three collections of essays, two ...