A genius of savoir faire,
Were the ironies of taxation any better: raising money for schools and hospitals and roads and bridges, and spending it on blowing up schools and hospitals and roads and bridges in self-defeating wars...
His conscience, like a sunburnt scorpion, was stinging itself to death.
People never remember happiness with the care that they lavish on preserving every detail of their suffering.
The Park's nice,' his father conceded, 'but the rest of the country is just people in huge cars wondering what to eat next.
Dilapidated
Why was he in this state? Or perhaps the question was why had he not always been in this state? Why had he not always found life so disturbing and so poignant?
This time he was going to fall apart silently.
No pain is too small if it hurts, but any pain is too big if it's cherished.
The Queen was saying only the other day that London property prices are so high that she doesn’t know how she’d cope without Buckingham Palace,’ Princess Margaret explained to a sympathetic Peter Porl...
Forced to observe the fringes of unconsciousness and make darkness visible;
The mess that's emerging...at least reflects the truth of my experience, the fact that every contemplation is interrupted, and that every interruption becomes further object of contemplation, and that...
I just have to get rid of this piece of glass,' said Anne. 'I guess something broke here earlier?''It was me,' said Patrick.
In England, art was much less likely to be mentioned in polite society than sexual perversions or methods of torture.
The way other people felt about love, he felt about heroin, and he felt about love the way other people felt about heroin: that it was a dangerous and incomprehensible waste of time.
He thought of one of the guiding mottoes of his father’s life: ‘Never apologize, never explain.
He knew as deeply as he knew anything that sedation was the prelude to anxiety, stimulation the prelude to exhaustion and consolation the prelude to disappointment, and so he lay on the red velvet sof...
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,...
He had become so caught up in building sentences that he had almost forgotten the barbaric days when thinking was like a splash of color landing on a page.
The Talking Heads pulsed from every speaker. ‘The centre is missing,’ gasped David Byrne, and Patrick could not help agreeing with him. How did they know exactly what he was feeling? It was spooky.
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