For some time now she has had the conviction that life is about to change if only because it must. . . .
I'm not the consolation prize, Dex. I'm not something you resort to. I happen to think I'm worth more than that.
I tell you what it is. It's...when I didn't see you, I thought about you every day, I mean every day in some way or another -" "Same here -" "- even if it was just 'I wish Dexter could see this' or 'where's Dexter now?' or 'Christ, that Dexter, what an idiot', you know what I mean, and seeing you today, well, I thought I'd got you back - my best friend. And now all this, the wedding, the baby - I'm so happy for you, Dex. But it feels like I've lost you again.
The future rose up ahead of her, a succession of empty days, each more daunting and unknowable than the one before her.
She shouldn't speak her thoughts; nothing good ever came of speaking your thoughts.
We're not ourselves, are we? I'm certainly not myself, not anymore. And you're not either. You don't seem yourself. Not as I remember you.
Being a decent human being will require effort and energy.
The trick of it, she told herself, is to be courageous and bold and make a different. Not change the world exactly, just the bit around you. Go out there with your double-first, your passion and your new Smith Carona electric typewriter and work hard at ... something. Change lives through art maybe. Write beautifully. Cherish your friends, stay true to your principles, live passionately and fully and well. Experience new things. Love and be loved if at all possible. East sensibly. Stuff like that.
…and Emma felt another small portion of her soul fall away.
…surprised all over again at how very comforting very bad food can be.
All his words and actions would now be fit for his daughter’s ears and eyes. Life would be lived as if under [her] constant scrutiny. He would never do anything that might cause her pain or anxiety or embarrassment and there would be nothing, absolutely nothing in his life to be ashamed of anymore.
But at the best of times she feels like a character in a Muriel Spark novel — independent, bookish, sharp-minded, secretly romantic.
Sometimes, when it is going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be a love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationary.
She had reached a turning point. She no longer believed that a situation could be made better by writing a poem about it.
...and once again Dexter is struck by how easy conversation can be when no-one is in their right mind
The city had defeated her, just like they said it would. Like some overcrowded party, no one had noticed her arrival, and would notice if she left.
He has found himself more and more reliant on her at exactly the point that she has become less available to him.
You must do what you enjoy.
I think you’re amazing,’ someone says to someone else, but it doesn’t matter who, because they’re all amazing really. People are amazing.
And you stupid, stupid woman, stupid for caring, stupid for thinking that he cared.
She realises that if she is to save the show she is going to have to improvise a rousing speech, one of the many Henry V moments that make up her working life.
The problem with all these fiercely individualistic girls was that they were all exactly the same.
You can't throw away years of your life because it makes a funny anecdote.
You've got to stop letting women slip drugs into your mouth, Dex, it's unhygienic. And dangerous. One day it'll be a cyanide capsule.
[He] didn’t like to think of himself as vain, but there were definitely times when he wished there was someone on hand to take his photograph.
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