Over the last couple of years, the photos of me when I was a kid... well, they've started to give me a little pang or something - not unhappiness, exactly, but some kind of quiet, deep regret... I keep wanting to apologize to the little guy: "I'm sorry, I've let you down. I was the person who was supposed to look after you, but I blew it: I made wrong decisions at bad times, and I turned you into me.

So now what? What happens when words fail us?

Sometimes we have to be judged by our one-offs.

Every time people force themselves to carry on with a book they're not enjoying, they reinforce the idea that reading is a duty.

What harm has he ever done to you?' 'You know what harm he's done me. He offended me with his terrible taste.

Clockers" asks--almost in passing, and there's a lot more to it than this--a pretty interesting question: if you choose to work for the minimum wage when everyone around you is pocketing thousands from drug deals, then what does that do to you, to your head and to your heart? (Hornby's thoughts after reading "Clockers" by Richard Price)

I have a really low boredom threshold.