The Book of Strange New Things

by Michel Faber

Afterward, Joshua had jumped back on the bed and tentatively laid one forepaw on Peter’s naked shin, as if to say, Don’t go; I will hold you here. It was a poignant moment, expressing the situation better than language could have, or perhaps it was just that the exotic cuteness of the cat put a protective furry layer over the raw human pain, making it endurable.

Joshua is helping me type, as usual: lying between the keyboard and the monitor, his back legs and tail obscuring the top row of keys. People think I’m being pedantic when I write numbers out as words, or type “pounds” instead of “£,” but the fact is that I have to lift up a comatose cat every time I want to use those symbol keys.

Someone at work said to me this morning, ”Where is God in all this?” I didn’t rise to the bait. I can never understand why people ask that question. The real question for the bystanders of tragedy is “Where are WE in all this?”