Her grief grieved her. His devastated her.

Novels are such mysterious and amorphous and tender things. And here we are with our crash helmets on, with concertina wire all around us.

He folded his fear into a perfect rose. He held it out in the palm of his hand. She took it from him and put it in her hair.

Her grief grieved her. His devastated her.

The American people ought to know that it is not them, but their government's policies, that are so hated.

It was a grand old house, the Ayemenem House, but aloof-looking. As though it had little to do with the people who lived in it. Like an old man with rheumy eyes watching children play, seeing only transience in their shrill elation and their whole-hearted commitment to life.

Insanity hovered close at hand, like an eager waiter at an expensive restaurant.