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This is just to show you whose boss around here. It’ll keep you on your toes, so to speak, Make you put your best foot forward, so to speak, And give you something to turn your hand to, so to speak. You can face up to it like a man, Or snivvle and blubber like a baby. That’s up to you. Nothing to do with Me. If you take it in the right spirit, You can have a bloody marvelous life, With the great rewards courage brings, And the beauty of accepting your LOT. And think how much good it’ll do your Mum and Dad, And your Grans and Gramps and the rest of the shower, To be stopped being complacent.
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rarely survive a visit to the cinema without shedding them, racked, as I am, by the most perfunctory, meretricious or even callously sentimental attempts at poignancy (something about the exterior of the human face, so vast and palpable, with the eyes and the lips: it is all writ too large for me, too immediate for me).
‘Death is the dark backing a mirror needs if we are to see anything.’
But writers write far more penetratingly than they live. Their novels show them at their very best, making a huge effort: stretched until they twang.
Unfelt, unregistered, pain is still working the room, death is still working the room. The air is heavy with trapped pain. But no one cries or moans; all are prone and silent,