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Author Topic: Prison
Smokin Joe Harper
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Can anyone recommend a bit of non-fiction prison writing?

Something about what it's like to be in prison for a lengthy spell. Preferrably British prison and not written by a well known/celebrity criminal.

And they need to be guilty, none of this miscarraige of justice bollocks.

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My name is Mumpo
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Mat Pereira
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Well, 'Our Lady Of The Flowers' was written by Jean Genet when he was actually in prison. He wrote it on loo paper which he hid under his bed, or something. It's hard going though. Like all of his novels. I lasted about twenty pages.

There's 'Innocent Villian' a book that for some reason or other was knocking around our house when I was a teenager. About a career criminal who got banged up for a long time for a crime he was framed for. Well, he says anyway. I can't remember either the name of the bloke, Patrick something beginning with M for a surname, or what he did, or jack else, actually. I read it when I was off school with a cold once.

Erm, that's not much to go on is it? I'm sure there's an obvious one that i'm missing.

Oh yeah, 'Borstal Boy' by Brendan Behan, of course, now that deffo rocks. Get that.

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Wyatt Earp
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That's the one. Borstal Boy.
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Gangster Octopus
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There's always the books by Erwin James, that bloke who used to write for theguardian.
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Smokin Joe Harper
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Cheers chaps, I'd forgotten about that Erwin James bloke GO, I think he could be just the ticket.
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axel
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De Profundis by Oscar Wilde is a nice bit of light prison-related writing.

'. Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one centre of pain. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to the inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes each dreadful day in the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to communicate itself to those external forces the very essence of whose existence is ceaseless change. Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through the vines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms or strewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing and can know nothing.'

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