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408 pages, Paperback
First published April 5, 2016
“You might detect, in the breath of air that rises from the unsealed flap, notes from the room in which is was penned, or the person who held the pen. It’s a tangible memorial. A palpable moment that can be held and read and referred to in the way that the ephemeral email or tweet cannot. In time all of that will be lost.” (1-2)
“These letters have already been through so much. They deserve the touch of a human hand. They deserve to be read, and understood, and acknowledged, before we burn them […] It feels as if, by reading them, I can put them at rest, somehow; these strangers, whose words have travelled so far, and never been delivered. What I do is so much more than simply cataloguing mail. I am the one wo lays them out; the one who delivers the last rites. I am the embalmer of memories; the custodian of the last word.” (42)
“Years of indulgence had made her fat; if I struck her, the blows would make ripples in the pallid flesh. I remembered smacking a jellyfish with the side of my spade – her skin was just the same shade of white – dead and helpless on the sand.” (54)
“Their acrid dust is on everything: my skin, my clothes, my possessions. Their plump and furry bodies hang from the ceiling in luxy swags; the sound of them is the grazing of sheep in a field of white noise.” (55)
“His grey, cadaverous appearance made him the living embodiment of deadline-stress.” (71)
“You think a lot of crazy shit when you get cancer.” (106)
“Fuck it, I had a rough day, I had a rough day, I’m in the mood for the cheap thrill of reading someone else’s mail.” (100)
“The Eternity Club? I’d never heard of that either but given what I had heard today, it definitely sounded like my kind of place” (102)
“There was a click as she hung up, which seemed anticlimactic. There are whole generations who will never know the pleasure of slamming the phone down.” (105)
“An impression had lodged in my head – the image of a figure watching me across a table spread with cards. The figure wasn’t just indistinct but unstable, as if it was composed of the kind of restless darkness you may see where there’s not source of illumination.” (132-133)
“There was a deep quiet between the sounds of sea and the wind. She no longer tried to fill it with words, but collected images; bluebells unexpected on the high cliffs, blackened thorns with feathers caught in them, a sleek hare that crossed their path in an instant.” (157)
“I know that these places exist, but I also know that they aren’t barren. Things are living there, breeding there. Spreading their influence.” (197)
“Beyond them I thought I could see the shadowy outline of a string of rocks, almost invisible in the gloom. They looked like the half-submerged back of a prehistoric skeleton.” (178)
"I realized that I had wished for some rare detective treat to unfold and found myself childishly disappointed that it had not led to something grisly and sinister" (209)
"The horrible truth was that I had been excited at the prospect of a more intriguing mystery. It was my loneliness I suppose. There. I will admit it. I am lonely." (210)
“You think email is the same, but it really isn’t […] I use it enough to know that no email was ever invested with the same longing or the same anticipation or the same despair that is invested when you see or set actual handwriting on actual paper. You can hear a person’s voice in their handwriting, don’t you find that? You feel a distance and closeness simultaneously – the distance that the letter has travelled, the closeness of fingers brushing against fingers, through pen marks on paper.” (226-227)
“I think about the dead letter, which is really a long-line communication between Amanda and me. Amanda hugs her father in 1994. Raymond Rouance picks up a pen in 1997, leaning the hand that touched his daughter’s hair upon the paper as he writes his note. I touch the ink, the paper, the hand, Amanda. A bridge that spans a distance of twenty years.” (243)
“We know as much about the universe we live in as a woodlouse under a pacing stone in my back garden knows about Sierra Leone.” (258)