He might have been naive, but he didn't care; he said he's rather die with his heart on his sleeve than end up another cynic.

Let it be. Silly song, really. You let it be, it returns. There's the truth. You let it be, it drags you to the ground. You let it be, it crawls up your walls.

It had never occurred to me before but everything in New York is built upon another thing, nothing is entirely by itself, each thing as strange as the last, and connected.

He looks like the sort of man who can't afford to leave, and doesn't want to stay, and so he is doing both at once.

Yet she likes complications. She wishes she could turn and say: I like people who unbalance me.

...and it strikes her, as she walks, that borders, like hatred, are exaggerated precisely because otherwise they would cease to exist altogether.

Anakana Schofield is part of a new wave of wonderful Irish fiction-international in scope and electrically alive.