Late last year, I was unfortunate enough to come to the attention of that feared autodidact and autocrat alchemist Dr. Fulminare, who demanded I produce a poem for his latest hare-brained recipe. Warily, I accepted a small spoonful of hare brain, and quite tasty it proved to be. Anyway, the upshot was this splendid micro-anthology, Korsakoff’s Paper Chain, which I urge on all discerning readers.



As Dr. F himself explains:

“Just as a patient suffering from Korsakoff’s syndrome, which affects the memory, may confabulate – create a false account in order to explain their solution and completely believe in it – and just as an act of architectural restoration may involve a certain amount of creative guesswork, so too goes the story of this wretched scrap of literature. Repeatedly destroyed, savaged, battered and blown to bits, only to be rebuilt from a few scattered remains by a different writer every time, it has survived long enough to be worth my presenting to you in bound form, with every past iteration having been reclaimed using sorcery, and the full story of its life painstakingly put back together. I, Dr Fulminare, give you the one and only Korsakoff’s Paper Chain.”