What was the use of it? What was the use of writing? The book was the noise. I couldn't fight it any more. All that was done, fighting was done now, and I tore the page from the book. Then another, at random, another page, the next page, letting them fall. Somehow or other and without realizing I must have cut myself on something, cut my hand, there was blood on the paper, dripping down words as I tore through them.
I took the photograph from its pocket. There it was, the senseless image. The colours, the various objects depicted, somebody, something, something else. The strange shapes. For too long now I had carried this thing around
- Jeff Noon, Falling Out of Cars
Posted by johndan at January 25, 2005 12:17 AM | TrackBack