He was alone in a charge room with the echo of his own waking cry, the sole and total literacy of the hinterlands scratched and daubed on the pale green walls around him. This is where they write their only books: Picking Nick was here, busted for speed; Og, caught holding for a friend; All coppers do it with their mothers; If you get off Angel tell the Rat I didn't. Stuff and screw and stuff again. Novels of rage, futile exposés addressed to lawyers, relatives and life; vomit and other things in corners; a cold steel door with rivets and only memories of paint through being kicked so often in silly resistance.
M. John Harrison, The Centauri Device (1975)
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