The pendulum of literary fashion usually swung violently once it began.

The disillusioned young moderns of the new century turned their backs on their elders under the impression that they had made a completely new discovery about the world they lived in. For that great Renaissance characteristic – love of action – they substituted the conviction that the world was a pit of iniquity and the only thing worth doing was to sit down and point out its sins. For that other great Renaissance characteristic – love of beauty – they substituted a kind of horrified fear of sex coupled with a fascinated interest in its abnormalities. And for vigour they substituted cleverness: “I’m not insulting you; I’m describing you.”

Drunks, children, and Tommy Middleton always told the truth.

Having your heart broken is like finding out you have bedbugs—not in an emotional sense, but practically. Both broken hearts and bedbugs require extreme treatment. You can’t just wash your sheets and think that’s enough. Not only is it not enough, you’ve likely made the problem worse by carting your dirty laundry all over the place.

You can get your house fumigated (this could be a metaphor for therapy), but even that won’t be enough, because the memories will be as bad as the bugs themselves. They’ll continue to plague you whether they’re there or not, crawling all over your legs and feet as you lie awake at night, unable to sleep. When you put on that T-shirt, you’ll feel them running up your neck into your hair. They’ll make their home in all the quiet, innocuous places in your life, burrowing into memories and holidays and songs and smells, and every time you think you’ve gotten rid of the last one, you’ll discover that you were an idiot to think there would ever be a last one.

That’s not how bedbugs work, and it’s not how broken hearts work.

it started with a little black box, past a door and down a hall, one with a light switch that didn’t seem to work. old corridor with a draft, a sound, voice; there might have been someone talking to you. 

kid was shaping coloured plasticine between his finger and thumb, shaping it into a figure, a man, cowboy maybe — here’s a head, funny little legs, an arm, arms. the revolver. surrounded on the dining room table by clay sculptures, buildings and streets, a spacecraft, a whale. a world was unfolding in the structures spread out there, pushed and pressed into shapes and bodies and things, and someone might have been talking to him but kid didn’t mind it at all.