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It has for long been known that E. M. Forster had a novel that at first he could not, and then would not, publish in his lifetime. But he intended it to be published after his death, and he left an account of how he came to write it. In the spring of 1913, when he was thirty-four, Forster was suffering from that perpetual loneliness which for a bachelor is the first sign of middle age. One day he went to visit Edward Carpenter, a curious late-Victorian clergyman turned free-thinker, nature lover turned socialist—a sage and liberator to some of Forster's generation, who lived with his working-class friend George Merrill in a cottage in Derbyshire.
Review, 7295 words
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