The Twilight Soi. William John Stapleton

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The Twilight Soi - William John Stapleton

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an inter-connected, over-populated world deluged with information, the complex nuances of a story and the art of writing have become increasingly unimportant.

      In breaking up with Aek the author should have realized he was dealing not just with one charming but ruthless go-go boy who assumed telling stealing and telling lies was just part of his job, but with mobsters protecting large revenues and with the issue of national pride.

      In the end The Twilight Soi is a story about power, mob mentality and money as much as it is about personal failings, gullibility, deception, treachery, betrayal, love and loss.

      For those who did nothing but dish out ridicule and abuse or took any opportunity to steal from the author – may no one ever be as spiteful, childish, dishonest or cruel to you as you were to that “ting tong mai dee maw falang, that crazy, bad, drunken foreigner who lived in your midst.

      To those few who showed him friendship and consideration whilst living in Thailand – thank you.

      Any attempts to negotiate with the bars mentioned in this story over claims for damages or this book’s content and timing of publication through the simple request for the names of their lawyers were thuggishly rebuffed.

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      Funeral Blues

      Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

      Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

      Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

      Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

      Let airplanes circle moaning overhead

      Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

      Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

      Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

      He was my North, my South, my East and West,

      My working week and my Sunday rest,

      My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

      I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

      The stars are not wanted now; put out every one;

      Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun:

      Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

      For nothing now can ever come to any good.

      W H Auden

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