Sublime

Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre.

hallowed

His hands were large and expressive, and he had moved easily in his chair, as if he felt it a pleasure to inhabit a body of which he’d never been ashamed – he’d smelt not of soap or fragrance but of clean skin. His lips had looked as if they had ashes on them: ‘He needs to drink more water,’ said Thomas tenderly, ‘or he’ll get headaches.’

Books became my closest confidants, finely ground lenses providing new views of the world.

gnomish quality about everything. A smaller-than-life quality, with a dash of the droll. What is this five-thousand-year-old book? The Mickey Mouse watch, Mr Tagomi himself, the fragile cup in Mr Tagomi’s hand … and, on the wall facing Mr Baynes, an enormous buffalo head, ugly and menacing.

‘That’s the story,’ I said. ‘But with Tully it’s hard. He’s one of those people. We struggle to accept he’s not twenty. Him not being twenty means that none of us is twenty. Him dying means we all are. That’s what gets everybody – he was always first with everything and now he’s showing us how to die.’