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“... A thread of light travelled through the beadWith the map of the world on it.No one’s keeping the plot I said.The marriage plot, man versusWilderness plot – there are more,But I forget. The biggest one is this:The world-knot. It needed, we did notKnow, to stay knotted. What lookedLike a tangle was in fact its substance.If laid end to end it would circle itselfAnd find an equator ...”

“... I read an article in a library in DublinAbout the Neo-Mineralists –Artists, sculptors who were creating new gems.Well, we had done it before.Leland Blue, Bridewell, Victoria stone.So much car paint had poured up in DetroitThat we gave a name to it: Fordite.There is also Rosarita,Red as a heart, which is a by-productIn the smelting of gold. It is a breakingly clearGlass ...”

“... I’m glad he’s gone my father said.But that was the beginningOf my obsession with garnets.He did cure my husband in the end,Just as I had jokingly wishedHoped requested. Begged,Prayed even. Haha but what if.The pope thought I was pregnant,He blessed my belly. I smiled in the pictureAnd looked exactly like McLovin,Anyone could have seen what I actuallyWas – great celestial gaylordsWere painting the ceiling –But the pope believed McLovinWas a woman with child ...”

“... Piece human, piece hornet, the fury of both, astonishing abs all over it. Ripped, just ripped to absolute bits, his head in the hornet and his head in the hum, and oh he want to sting her. The air he breathes is filled with flying cheerleader parts. Splits flips and splits, and ponytails in orbit, the calm eye of the panty in the centre of the cartwheel, the word HORNETS – how? – flying off the white uniform ...”

“... Kafka​ had consumption, which everyone else also had at that time: look at them up on the tops of mountains, men coughing spots in love with women coughing spots, so that you could draw lines between them until the whole world was filled in. It was a comfort to read him in a year when everyone again had the same disease. More specifically her, for in that moment she was everyone ...”

“... The first thoughts​ about Joan Didion are not reasonable. The present literature about her is a hagiography that does not entirely trust itself; there is a vacancy at the centre of it that I call the ‘but surely’. But surely if these essays were published now, the hagiography says to itself at three in the morning, they would meet with a different reception? But surely if she wrote today, her ideas about feminism would be more in line with ours? But surely, for all her pointillism, she is failing to draw the conclusions we would most like to see? The hagiography turns the pillow over, looking for a cool spot ...”

“... My story​ will be that John Harvard gave it to me. ‘Who’s that?’ I asked, pointing at a bronze bust in the reading room where I had arrived to give my lecture, and was told that it was the university’s founder, John Harvard. ‘Damn,’ I said. ‘It never even occurred to me that Harvard was a guy.’ It was the night of 3 March, and travelling didn’t seem so foolhardy as it would even a week later; at that point the accepted wisdom was that hand sanitiser was the great necessity, and that the virus was being mostly spread by touch ...”

“... Hers​ is one of the faces that rises up when I am wandering the library of my mind. The gaze, sharp and swimming, with the right eye like a bead on a glass. The swinging haircut, a little disarranged with thinking, the fringe you can imagine her roughly pushing off her forehead, as her penned-in and pacing girl characters did. The dark mouth, interrupted in the middle of some opinion ...”

“... The observation​ that some people do not like Rachel Cusk is so omnipresent in criticism of her work that it’s surprising no one’s ever led off a review with ‘I, too, dislike her.’ These observations are generally accompanied by photos or illustrations of her in which she looks at you both directly and flinchingly, almost always with a strand of hair in the centre of her forehead, with a smile somewhat like Edna O’Brien’s – another writer who seemed to rouse hatred for her disarranged hair as much as for her books, another writer who went to convent school ...”

“... Isaw​ the end of it then, I mean the end of it as it was, as my mother told the story of my father’s sudden deafness. The turn towards the deer in the snow, two pairs of black eyes, the earplugs falling out soundlessly, the shot – then the line on his hearing chart falling off a cliff at a thousand decibels.It was our first visit to Kansas City since before the election and the rectory seemed to have grown smaller, darker, dingier ...”

“... Recently​ I had an opportunity to check in on the state of American Catholicism. The occasion was a tradcath wedding in St Louis, greyscale city of my teenage years, and the last place I truly believed in demons. I left in 1999, just before my senior year of high school. My friends would celebrate the turn of the millennium without me, but in escaping I also narrowly missed a more tailor-made end of the world ...”

“... On Election Day,​ as soon as the polls closed, I had to watch the three-hour-long 1972 movie musical 1776. You almost certainly haven’t seen it, so I’ll summarise it for you. The year is – well, you know that part – and the flies of patriotism are buzzing in the room in colonial Philadelphia where the Second Continental Congress is refusing to debate a proposal for American independence ...”

“... We​ had been watching The X-Files at a rate of about two episodes a year; I expected to be finished when I was approximately 114 and living in a small fishing village in Japan. But ever since my husband lost half of his blood volume after a bowel resection in 2022, after the 47 days in the desert during which I personally tended his wound, the calendar had become meaningless, as had numbers ...”

“... is graciously reproduced in Critchley’s book. That is the vision itself, the vision that Sister Patricia could contemplate for all time.Fragments risk standing in poor relation to their wholes. We’re up against monuments here, not just of mysticism but its interpreters and translators. We’re stacking ourselves against The Cloud of Unknowing and The ...”

“... It​ was a perfect day, and we paid for it. Out the ass, I wrote on hotel stationery later, before deciding to reject the easy joke; I was a tasteful person now, having passed through the refiner’s fire. 8 May. We had flown into LA from Savannah the night before; the city, from our hotel room, looked like a heat map of itself. The jacarandas were blooming ...”