When I set out to interpret and even guide the strife around this year’s Turner Prize by casting Nick Serota and Billy Childish as the protagonists of Dostoevsky’s parable of the Grand Inquisitor, I conceived of myself as a fair and honest observer, an enlightened and erudite outsider, and a sincere admirer of both men, but, by and by, I found myself ever less able to play my own rôle—that of the writer, the artist, the maker. I found myself ever more partial, partisan, ever more of an eager participant. Siding with Billy, abandoning myself to love, I grew numb, dumb. I fell under the spell of the real writer, the real artist in my story. No, I fell under the spell of real Billy—his love, his compassion. And I fell quiet for a while, unable to plumb my next step, let alone the whole of the clever plot. Until today, that is. Today I decided it would be best simply to confess my true feelings. Chances are no-one but myself will have fallen for my little invention, but I still feel fortunate for it. My true feelings—my own reward.