The Whale at the End of the World

by John Ironmonger

fragments of truth are often all we need to help us understand reality.

If this was death, then death was like switching off the lights in a big house; first the farthest rooms, then the dining room and the kitchen and the landing, and then the living room, and then, with the house almost in darkness, there’s time for a last look around, a farewell moment, perhaps, to see if everything is in order; and then the final switch in the hallway.