– This was the summer people began to speak of purity and tradition and taking things back…–
– The billionaire up close: midget ears, delicate eyes and nose, hair thin and neatly combed, a pursed mouth and the faintest sketch of a moustache, all encased in a great slab of face, a slab that correctly employed could have made at least three such faces. Whatever creator one believed in, it was indulgent work. The effect was not so much good or bad as expensive. –
– Happiness writes white, as they say. –
– The stunned journalists watched as real, uncut news swallowed them. –
– Sometimes, he thought, you lived with a person for years and years, questioning nothing, and one day you realised you’d been living with a different person all along. They hadn’t changed, you were just wrong the first time…He didn’t know what the hell she was going to do next. It wasn’t necessarily bad – he sort of liked this new dynamic mother he’d got. In a funny way not completely trusting her made him trust her more. –
– It was often said that print is dead. Those who said it no doubt knew better than them, but they hoped these naysayers were wrong. For by this act of printing they had handcuffed themselves to the same fate. If no one read them, no one would save them. If print was dead then so were they. –
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Review for the Sunday Times: http://bit.ly/2tbQXzB
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