It's the essence of a degenerating mind periodically, to lose all sense of continuous self, and therefore any regard for what others think of your lack of continuity.

No one knew about the squirrel’s skull beneath Briony bed, but no one wanted to know.

Above all, she wanted to look as though she had not given the matter a moment's thought, and that would take time.

Arguing with a dead man in a lavatory is a claustrophobic experience.

Is there any meaning in my life that the inevitable death awaiting me does not destory?

Reading groups, readings, breakdowns of book sales all tell the same story: when women stop reading, the novel will be dead.

I apologize for being obvious, but every time I watch the curtain come down on even a halfway decent production of a Shakespeare play I feel a little sorrowful that I'll never know the man, or any man of such warm intelligence.