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.
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.
Unlike others, we have no choice but to live with ourselves - still. A 27 hour residency seems a little brief.
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