According to an exclusive interview:
I was stunned by his honesty. “But what will you do next Johann? How will we cope without your excoriating honesty at the heart of the British commentariat?” He blushed. “I’ve started working on a book on a subject I believe is important and requires urgent action,” he said waving what looked like someone else’s book entirely. “Isn’t that by Noam Chomsky?”, I asked.
He seemed to ignore me, caught up in his own thoughts. “To do this properly needs international travel and the kind of in depth focus that’s not possible when you’re writing a heavily researched column at the same time.” “Oh did you do those?” I asked politely. His look hardened but he ploughed on: “I’ll be writing occasional articles elsewhere but I’ll be mainly delving deeply into one subject for now.” What could it be I wondered?
I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family, though not of that country, my father being a foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull. My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire: I was the third of five sons. As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place where was a Den, and I laid me down in that place to sleep: and, as I slept, I dreamed a dream.
Idle reader: thou mayest believe me without any oath that I would this book, as it is the child of my brain, were the fairest, gayest, and cleverest that could be. An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money.
You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing. I am extremely concerned, my dearest friend, for the disturbance that have happened in your family.
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.
Thrilling, eh? I’m sure we all look forward to the next example of Johann Hari’s prize-winnning oeuvre with great anticipation.
Quotes from the Twitterverse: [View the story “Johann Hari & David Rose Quit IndyNews” on Storify]