He had only just made the Elysian deadline; hanging onto the typescript until the last moment in case there was something still to be done; two sentences turned into one, one sentence broken into two,...
After less than a year together they now slept in separate rooms because Victor's snoring, and nothing else about him, kept her awake at night.
There was definitely an argument for getting some sleep; namely, that when he woke up the impact of the drugs would be stronger.
Nevertheless,
But that, after all, was the point of romantic folly. If it hadn’t all gone horribly wrong, it wouldn’t have been the real thing.
And my heart is a handful of dust, / And the wheels go over my head, / And my bones are shaken with pain, / For into a shallow grave they are thrust, / Only a yard beneath the street,’ something, some...
They had never met, but she had come to understand what had driven Victor’s wife to seek refuge in a full set of Snoopy mugs.
Was he, after all, really a bad man doing a brilliant impersonation of an idiot? It was hard to tell. The connections between stupidity and malice were so tangled and so dense.
Unlike the riotous appetites of adolescence, his present cravings had a tragic tinge, they were cravings for the appetites, metacravings, wanting to want.
That was the wonderful thing about historical novels, one met so many famous people. It was like reading a very old copy of magazine.
I find everything boring, therefore I'm fascinating.
Experience of love is that you get excited thinking that someone can mend your broken heart, and then you get angry when you realize that they can’t. A certain economy creeps into the process and the...
Why had he said, ‘Some combination of pride and terror’? Did he still think it was uncool to admit to any enthusiasm, even in front of his greatest friend?
This was it, the big moment: the corpse of his chief enemy, the ruins of his creator, the body of his dead father; the great weight of all that was unsaid and would never have been said; the pressure...
The drive rose sharply to the left of the steps to a circle of flat ground where her maroon Buick was parked under an umbrella pine. It looked preposterous, stretched out on its white-walled tyres aga...
Talking of 'letting go of a lot of stuff,' his father handed the phrase back to Seamus, held by the corner like someone else's used handkerchief....
She always said, ‘I know you like this,’ which was a lie, because he had told her he didn’t the last time.
Nevertheless, she treasured the idea that the Fauberts were connected to the earth in some wholesome way that the rest of us had forgotten.
Just before the top of the hill she stopped, breathed deeply, and tried to muster her scattered sense of calm, like a bride checking her veil in the last mirror before the aisle.
At the same time, his past lay before him like a corpse waiting to be embalmed.