The Ocean at the End of the Lane

How can you be happy in this world? You have a hole in your heart. You have a gateway inside you to lands beyond the world you know. They will call you, as you grow. There can never be a time when you forget them, when you are not, in your heart, questing after something you cannot have, something you cannot even properly imagine, the lack of which will spoil your sleep and your day and your life, until you close your eyes for the final time, until your loved ones give you poison and sell you to anatomy, and even then you will die with a hole inside you, and you will wail and curse at a life ill-lived. But you won't grow. You can come out, and we will end it, cleanly, or you can die in there, of hunger and of fear. And when you are dead your circle will mean nothing, and we will tear out your heart and take your soul for a keepsake.

I took my book into the back garden, beneath the balcony, by the flower bed under the television-room window, and I read – forgetting my hunger in Egypt with animal-headed gods who cut each other up and then restored one another to life again.

I lay on the bed and lost myself in the stories. I liked that. Books were safer than other people anyway.