The tube becomes a chariot of fire, and his heart is renewed with an honest desire, his shoes become wings and he flies towards her side, to throw himself before her and promise he will try with new vigour to be better,

Jane – Brand New Pandora, legs crossed on the floor, with the lid off the box, heart full of shame and stomach in knots, no going back, she must learn to forgive herself and move on, ’cos what happens in love is beyond right or wrong.

We are still permanently trapped somewhere between the heroic and the pitiful. We are still godly; that’s what makes us so monstrous.

All men are weaklings, all women are whores. And they will have their power, two starving mouths desperate to devour, to digest the flesh of the city that raised them so sour, a hunger for vengeance that never sleeps but endures. A hunger satisfied every night but every morning restored. In the old days they would have been warriors swords singing

punch-happy fists, sad eyes – but between them was decency, between them a bond, a shared weakness that made them both strong. If you see them, hoods up, prowling the pavement at night you’ll walk quickly away, skin prickling with terror but they know love, though, and they know laughter, know each other as brother, friend, father. Equals. Gods in

He was swearing at her and at himself. She looked him in the face, intent on discovering some tiny trace of grace, some snatch of goodness . . .

I am speaking of those who cannot tolerate the loss of myth and who can neither find a way to a merely exterior world, to the world as seen by science, nor rest satisfied with an intellectual juggling with words, which has nothing whatsoever to do with wisdom.

the gods are at the rave – two pills deep into dancing –

Clive was close to her, one hand on her shoulder, the other opening his flies, she felt the fury rise, stared straight into his eyes; he couldn’t meet her gaze but she wouldn’t look away.