But I had a most peculiar reading relationship with him. The Children of Dynmouth was the first Trevor I read — during the early months in Boston when I knew almost nobody and read voraciously to keep from living in the bar down the street. The novel was so damned enveloping and creepy (Timothy Gedge — perfect name, right? — is one of the most convincing monsters in literature) that I was too freaked to read anything more by Trevor. Which is a mistake and a shame, but there you have it.
I’m surprised I knew nothing about his sculpting career.