Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.
Nasa only has to worry about the fiery immolation of its crew, should anything go wrong. They do not have to take into account the treatment you give your machines.
I saw the recycling bag shuddering with Mousey’s orgiastic delight and started to reflect on animal cruelty.
It has been cut out from a reproduction of The Kiss by Gustav Klimt and is about the size of one of those special stamps you get which are a bit too big for the envelope.
Nowadays, there is no hint of laughter in the language we use to describe the demented – apart, of course, from the laughable nature of the euphemisms to which we are now exhorted to turn.
There comes a point when the shit piles so high on top of you that there’s no point in even trying to struggle.
I thought of this while going to the local deli to buy a carrot and a couple of onions.
“Sorry about all the mean things I have said about Sweden,” I say.
What kind of person, I wonder, steals a bottle of perfume from an incapacitated elderly lady?
“Lord, does it hurt?” a disciple asks the agonised Christ on the cross. “Only when I laugh,” He replies.
These streets won’t appear on chocolate boxes - so soon they won't appear at all.
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