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“I write about London because it provides the maximum number of narratives,” Moorcock says, “but the cult of individualism that goes with consumer capitalism is simplifying and destroying all the narratives that I grew up with: the myths of our survival through the Blitz, of our ability to resist aggression, of our ability to create a new world. All that is threatened now, or has already been destroyed.” The little islands of solitude and zones of peace are being forced to pay their way, he tells me, and there’s no room in Notting Hill for a Jerry Cornelius – or a Michael Moorcock.

“So I’m staying in France,” says our greatest living fantasist, “praying it won’t get more like Britain.”


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