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awash in a grand quantity of private torment.”
Why would I want to point out the places where my flesh was soft, my organs vulnerable?
He had a presence as mild as salad and the beautiful crow’s-feet of someone who could afford to age attractively.
He’s thinner these days. His hip bones are real architectural features.
Still handsome then, Robbie. His hairline just beginning its uphill scarper.
though the air hung like an executed corpse—and
Insects made their opinions known.
“Can you swim?” “What?” “If I push you in the river, will it be murder?”
we’d find her sitting at the top of a long table like a mannequin awaiting the gift of demonic possession.
Fitzjames had once asked him how he could approach life-threatening peril and minor annoyances with the same mildness, and he’d shrugged.
still smiling, though increasingly looking as if the smile was being operated by winches inside her skull.
He sounds like someone’s peeled the skin off his voice.
My mother, who had witnessed the sort of horrors that changed the way screams sounded, first dealt with the panics by getting angry at me. Only now,
Butterflies demand so much attention. A spider just wants to eat.
I am a scrambled egg in woman’s casing.”
The paperwork had started breeding in captivity.
the sky was crisp cerulean, and the grass was rimed with silver.
She badly harassed the tea bags, I think because she couldn’t look at my face.
When I was still a teenager, building my personality from the films and the books and the songs I
toothache of a day,
“The earth moved.” But the earth stays the same. It’s your relationship with the ground that shifts.
This is what the road to hell is like, I thought. Not paved with good intentions, but tarmacked and screaming with vehicles driven by people who don’t know and don’t care that Arthur is dead.
