harry hogg
Bio
My life began beneath a shrub on a roundabout in Gants Hill, Essex, U.K. (No, I’m not Moses!) I was found by a young couple leaving the Odeon cinema having spent their evening watching a Spencer Tracy movie.
The rest, as they say, is history
Stories (30/0)
I Learned About Lingerie Through Loving
After many long years, I re-read her first letter, and remembered, as if it were my first reading, its fine musical intervention into my life, carrying its own breath, long lines, short ones, and setting real the lost images. It was the first of many beautiful letters I received from my wife during our marriage.
By harry hogg3 years ago in Filthy
I Said I'd Never Steal Again...But!
Jimmy (Snowy) McCleod, so nick-named because his hair turned white at age fourteen, was more than half way through his life when he purchased a 1955 clinker built yacht, twin mast, and half sunk. He paid five hundred pounds for her and became the laughing stock on the island.
By harry hogg3 years ago in Confessions
Why Do I Cut Myself?
I’m a man for whom many would characterize as an unconscionable rogue. I did nothing for the world or anyone in it. Yet, and I’m biased on this matter, I was a deliciously likable rogue. It’s true, I was loud, sometimes aggressive (if I was obliged to fight, then fight, I would).
By harry hogg3 years ago in Psyche
Nowhere Man
My name is Harry Hogg. I’m an alcoholic. I was born an orphan. I am a novelist’s dream child. Raised by good people, I was uninterested in learning at school. At seventeen, I left the island on which I became a teenager. I spent days, weeks, and months alone, preferring to remain distant. At the time of writing, I am 73.
By harry hogg3 years ago in Confessions
God is a Frog
When I come back to the island, I return to the decrepit barn on Alex McKlintock's land. Built a century ago, its skeletal remains stand in the shadow of Ben More. The sinister, dank stink of crumbling stone, rotting timbers, and peat moss is evocative of time’s passing. Cobwebs display themselves in grotesque mysteries in the three corners. The roof is caved in, a decomposed mass of timber under velvet moss and shattered volcanic slate. I look at myself back then, smell the moisture on my fingers, a concoction of soil, and the secret scent of eroticism. It would be simpler to tell in the third person, indifferently, so as not to offend my more mature morals. But I take the blame for what I’ve done. Each tender, misguided sortie explored is what I am today.
By harry hogg3 years ago in Fiction