I’d just, averting my gaze from the resettling of poor Ros, caught a glimpse of Alison past the bent back of her husband: she’d also turned away and was now watching the tall police officer, Bob, scrape dried blood off the walls into little pillboxes, and I thought, captured once more by the illusion of patterns: What love shared with theater is the poetry of space…
“I don’t know which seems more futile to me right now, writing a novel or writing another book of social criticism. Both of them seem, in the current context, futile. I suppose what I’d most like to do is write for the sake of writing and not even try to publish. But, I’ve been sort of embarrassingly lucky in terms of being paid for my so-called dissent. My punishment, I suppose, is how many student papers I’ve had to grade.”
Curtis White