Someday she might replace whatever of her had gone away by some prosthetic device, a dress of a certain color, a phrase in a letter, another lover.

It is a curve each of them feels, unmistakably. It is the parabola. They must have guessed, once or twice - guessed and refused to believe - that everything, always, collectively, had been moving toward that purified shape latent in the sky, that shape of no surprise, no second chance, no return. Yet they do move forever under it, reserved for its own black-and-white bad news certainly as if it were the rainbow, and they its children...

Despair came over her, as it will when nobody around has any sexual relevance to you.

What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one's enemy only when his back is turned?

Some typewriters in Whitehall, in the Pentagon, killed more civilians than our little A4 could have ever hoped to.

You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.

Through the machineries of greed, pettiness, and the abuse of power, love occurs.