The Bone Clocks: A Novel

Last paragraph in the dying light: “ ‘And we all nodded at him: the man of finance, the man of accounts, the man of law, we all nodded at him over the polished table that like a still sheet of brown water reflected our faces, lined, wrinkled; our faces marked by toil, by deceptions, by success, by love. Our weary eyes looking still, looking always,

The working classes are kept in a state of repression by a mixture of force and lies.” So I ask, “What sort of lies?” “The lie that happiness is about borrowing money you haven’t got to buy crap you don’t need,” says Ian. “The lie that we live in a democratic state. And the most weaselly lie of all, that there is no class war.

“I’m six,” says Aoife. “My birthday’s on December the first.” “How grown up you look! December the first? My, my.” Immaculée Constantin recites in a secretive, musical voice: “ ‘A cold coming we had of it, just the worst time of the year for a journey, and such a journey: the ways deep and the weather sharp, the very dead of winter.

Civilization’s like the economy, or Tinkerbell: If people stop believing it’s real, it dies.

“I’ve a gift, Ed.” The old Irishwoman has speckled woodpecker-green eyes. “Like Holly’s. Ye know what it is I’m talking of, so ye do.” Chatter swells and falls like the sea on shingle. “I’m guessing you mean the voices Holly heard when she was a girl, and the, well, what in some circles would be called her moments of ‘precognition.’ ” “Aye, there’s

Olly’s laugh is a notch too loud. His pupils have morphed into love-hearts and, for the nth time squared, I wonder what love feels like on the inside because externally it turns you into the King of Tit Mountain.

I sip my coffee. It’s good. “The de facto king of Iraq is a Kissinger acolyte named L. Paul Bremer III. On taking office, he passed two edicts that have shaped the occupation. Edict number one ruled that any member of the Ba’ath Party above a certain rank was to be sacked. With one stroke of the pen Bremer consigned to the scrap-heap the very civil

After Earl’s Court my carriage lurches into the dying light. Gasworks and Edwardian roofs, chimneys and aerials, a supermarket car park, Premises for Rental. Commuters sway like sides of beef and slump like corpses: red-eyed office slaves plugged into Discmans; their podgier selves in their forties buried in the Evening Standard; and nearly retired

Love’s pure free joy when it works, but when it goes bad you pay for the good hours at loan-shark prices.