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It's the Sixties, New York and we are in that legendary bohemian bolt hole, The Chelsea Hotel, Arthur Miller is just across the hall, the sound of Ornett Coleman is drifting down from the penthouse and the symphony of 24th Street is rising up and in through the open window of Brendan Behan's room. He's broke, hung over and way past the delivery date of his latest book, the first line of which he has yet to write. He was told to stop drinking or he'd be dead in six months ... that was two years ago.

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Author: Janet Behsan