Abe remembered as he pulled into the rest area. Too late. Sixteen years of habit die slow. He rested his right palm on the frayed Navajo-style passenger seat-cover, feeling the faint prickle of Geordie’s short, coarse hair trapped in the rough weave. It felt like the spiky-soft tips of grass sprouting on the grave beneath the ash tree. Killing the engine, Abe shut his eyes. Geordie always smelled like swamp water. For the first weeks Abe was convinced the pup snuck into things: drains, garbage cans, trash heaps. But patient stalking revealed no miscreance. The goofy mutt was just an eventual 97 pounds of slobbering, soft-hearted, small-bladdered stinker. Picked a winner, Hazel would tease. read more

Does anyone – other than M. Bertillon from a seminal 1987 GCSE French textbook – still say ‘zut alors! ’? It is the sort of thing this icon of beret-wearing contrivance used to exclaim when stung by Kiki La Guêpe, prevented, as he was, from shouting the more realistic ‘Fuckme, that hurt!’ read more

Hannah Pye had been with us about five years. She rented a small holding on the land side of the highway that ran through the township. She was a pleasant person, about 5’ 4’’, with an open, smiling face and a ruddy complexion. She dressed in the sort of determinedly outdoor clothing you can only get from specialist catalogues. read more

The Sheriff of Lincoln County and I happened to be in the Wortley Hotel Lincoln NM at the same time. He came into the breakfast room shortly after me. A big man, well into his 60s I guessed but he moved lightly. He pulled up a chair at the table next to mine. ‘Howdy,’ he said. ‘What brings you to Lincoln?’ I told him my business was antiques and artworks and gave him my card to prove it. Rural county sheriffs like to know who’s around. He ordered steak and eggs. Some small talk was made. He asked me if I had done any military time. I told him two tours in Afghanistan. ‘Vietnam was my thing,’ he said. ‘I volunteered.’ He held out his hand and we exchanged strong grips. ‘Staying long?’ he enquired. I told him it depended on what business there was to be done. ‘I have a thing here to deal with. I’m based in Carrizozo. If you’re going that way, stop by.’ I said I would be glad to. read more

Ruth Adler had been my expert consultant and moral support when I wrote the book that elevated me to full professor, Newark Unbound: Place and Identity in the Fiction of Philip Roth. read more

Jonah was not conscious in the way that humans would deem as being so. On the day he ‘met’ Lily, he was with other bodies whose skin, or synthetic dermal coating, was the same as his. They all stood in a line, in a seedy sex shop in Soho. Since the law had long said he was not a person, not a real person, he was not allowed, he was unlawful. Because of this, he was without protection. Jonah had seen his friends bought by other customers, or other things or bodies that looked somewhat like him with his outer shell, but needed to be turned on first, before fucking, whereas Jonah was turned on all the time. Inside his synthetic skin, Jonah wondered at these creatures. read more

“Whiskey is a sure fire cure for every illness.” read more

What goes around never comes around. That’s our tragedy. Life is one-way; there’s no return journey. Our single ticket allows us to see ourselves as part of a cycle, which is humbling, yet debars us from taking part in its completion, which is tragic. When we understand this there can be no premature opting-out. We see it through, painlessly if we’re lucky. But the tragedy is complicated by the absurd, in that what we are resigned to leaving behind is what we want more of. At the point of death, we crave more life. read more

You will almost certainly have heard of my husband Marcus, the author of a series of highly successful books on intuitive relationship management. He has been fêted from Dublin to Dubai and is credited with rescuing the marriages of many thousands. I feel a deep gratitude toward those thousands, for they have supplied me, through their eagerness to buy my husband's books and attend his seminars, with a standard of living almost embarrassingly high. The size of our villa in the San Fernando Valley is a particular asset, as it enables us to maintain a polite distance. Marcus and I have, over many a long year, mastered what may be a uniquely convivial form of loathing. read more

It was the year a Turkish aircraft was hijacked to Lebanon. The same year of the Taksim Square massacres on Labour Day. The year of the post-modern coup. Two years after Billy Hayes took his midnight express from Imrali prison. Fifty-four years after the republic was formed. The four young adults, in the full bloom of raging hormones and thirst for enjoyment, were blissfully unaware of it all, heading to Turkey for what they hoped would be a memorable holiday. read more