I couldn’t very well make a special delivery to the door of the constabulary now could I? And he’d have made the perfect scapegoat. That aura of misery he wraps himself in. So Byronesque. He’s...

Over the course of seventy years, Isobel had learned how indiscriminately unkind Life could be. She also knew that cataloguing and reviewing examples of such cruelty was, in itself, a masochistic exercise. One that she’d...

Embrace it. Live it. Life’s too short. Even looking at it from my end, when I’ve had more chances than many, I wish–actually even more so now–that I could go back and tinker with a...

Books are like horcruxes–without all the evil–because a piece of the author goes into each one.