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‘Fantasy might not be truth as the world counts it, but what was truth when fantasy meant survival?’

Bloody hell. This is rather good. Perhaps I’m just getting older.

‘Grief is like falling in love; it is always narcissistic. Some catastrophe cuts through your life and immediately you reshape the world to make this disaster the secret heartbeat of all things, the buried truth of the universe.’

A word I’ve never cone across before even in Anthony Burgess’s pages: steatopygic.

‘They looked less like the remnants of a military enterprise, even a failed one, than the medicine men of an advanced cargo cult, or a horde of Syrian pedlars about to be unleashed on all the country towns of New South Wales.’

‘The only boy in a house of full of sisters could not be set free easily, not while there were payments on the boat, and nobody to inherit the Croft.’

‘True, I am twenty, but I have, since I was sixteen, received about three hundred rejection slips, at least a hundred from The New Yorker, and I'm getting tired of them. How long, O Lord, how long!’