The Bone Clocks

by David Mitchell

“Karl Marx,” says Heidi, “proved how capitalism eats itself. When it can’t feed the millions it spits out, no amount of lies or brutality will save it.

Being born’s a hell of a lottery.

“Love is the anesthetic applied by Nature to extract babies.”

Love is a blurring of pronouns.

In order to have sex, women need to feel loved; but in order for men to feel loved, we need to have sex.

However much you love them, your own children are only ever on loan.”

Adverbs are cholesterol in the veins of prose. Halve your adverbs and your prose pumps twice as well.” Pens scratch. “Oh, and

beware of the verb ‘seem’; it’s a textual mumble. And grade every simile and metaphor from one star to five, and remove any threes or below. It hurts when you operate, but afterwards you feel much better.

“Art feasts upon its maker,”

“Naturally, the Blind Cathar had transubstantiated,” I explain. Holly leans back. “Is transwhateveritis even a word?”

Bullshit. An Irish Catholic knows what Transubstantiation is.

We live on, as long as there are people to live on in.