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She had a transcendental repose. Like a nun. Like a queen.
The sorrows of humanity are no one’s sorrows,
A thousand people drowned in floods in China are news: a solitary child drowned in a pond is tragedy.
but perhaps a series of small satisfactions scattered like sequins over the texture of everyday life was of greater worth than the academic satisfaction of owning a collection of fine objects at the back of a drawer.
if there was one word that a policeman loathed more than another it was hearsay.
As far as he, Alan Grant, was concerned Thomas More was washed out, cancelled, deleted;
“Give me research. After all, the truth of anything at all doesn’t lie in someone’s account of it. It lies in all the small facts of the time. An advertisement in a paper. The sale of a house. The price of a ring.”
Truth isn’t in accounts but in account books.”
He was only thirty-two when he was killed at Bosworth.”
He listened to the twentieth-century sparrows on his windowsill and marvelled that he should be reading phrases that formed in a man’s mind more than four hundred years ago.
He was what is euphemistically referred to as ‘unuxorious.’
