“Disappointed in his hope that I would give him the fictional equivalent of “One Hundred Ways of Cooking Eggs” or the “Carnet de la Ménagère,” he began to cross-examine me about my methods of “collecting material.” Did I keep a notebook or a daily journal? Did I jot down thoughts and phrases in a cardindex? Did I systematically frequent the drawing-rooms of the rich and fashionable? Or did I, on the contrary, inhabit the Sussex downs? or spend my evenings looking for “copy” in East End gin-palaces? Did I think it was wise to frequent the company of intellectuals? Was it a good thing for a writer of novels to try to be well educated, or should he confine his reading exclusively to other novels? And so on. I did my best to reply to these questions — as non-committally, of course, as I could. And as the young man still looked rather disappointed, I volunteered a final piece of advice, gratuitously. “My young friend,” I said, “if you want to be a psychological novelist and write about human beings, the best thing you can do is to keep a pair of cats.” And with that I left him. I hope, for his own sake, that he took my advice.”

“Did Ellis hurt like I did my first time? I hoped not. I tried desperately to prep him as best I could, but there was still no guarantee that today he wouldn’t feel the repercussions, despite my careful planning. To his advantage, and to the detriment of my ego, I was on the low side of average.”

“Ravel said. “And I order people around really well. This morning, Tipstaff came over with a cup of tea and I told him no, I don’t want tea I want coffee. That was great. I really asserted my authority.”“Did he go and get you a coffee?”“No, he said he’d already made a pot of tea so I took the tea because, you know he’d already made it, but my authority was still firmly asserted.”Ghastly nodded. “He’ll think twice about making tea again.”“That he will, Ghastly my friend, that he will. What are we looking for, by the way?“Seriously? I gave you the file half an hour ago.”“Yes, you did.”“And did you read it?”“No, I did not.”

“Don’t even think about saying he only did it because he’s looking out for my best interest.” “I wasn’t,” William replied. “I was going to agree with you. It was none of his bloody business.”

“Before I can respond, Nash continues. “Or was I there, too?” He brushes his lips over mine. “Did you think of my lips when he kissed you?” Light as a feather, he runs his hand down the outside of my thigh and back up again, squeezing my hip. “Did you wish it was me touching you? Like I did the night I came to your room?”I start to lean back and speak, but his lips take mine, quickly coaxing them apart. Sensation drowns out thought as I feel him breathe into my mouth. “Do you still want me? Because if you do, I’m all yours.”

“Tonight I saw Jesus with the eyes on my face. He looks half lion and half man. But not more like a lion and not more like a man, rather the same, I have never seen anything like the face of Jesus before, %100 one thing but %100 another thing: a lion man!” “Where did you see Him at?” “On the surface of my blanket as I lay in bed. He was suddenly drawn onto it, like a sketch, and that same moment I knew He was showing His face to me, finally.” “Why do you think He did that?” “I think He thought it was about time.”