Scarlett Thomas

Patrick opens his arms about three feet wide and, with one finger pointing up on each hand, tries to show the scope of this thing. I notice that he doesn__ look at his hands as he does this, but at the wall behind me. It suddenly occurs to me that when people describe size this way, they__e relying on perspective to help them. He__ not saying __t__ this big._ He__ saying __t would look this big from here if it was over there.

Sometimes I like to think I live with ghosts. Not from my past, but wispy bits of ideas and books that hang in the air like silk puppets. Sometimes I think I see my own ideas, floating around too, but they usually don't last that long. They're more like mayflies; they're born, big and gleaming, and then they fly around, buzzing like crazy before they fall to the floor, dead, about twenty four hours later.

There's something romantic about it, of course, in the way only other people's lives can be.

If something wants to be a story, it will be.

People make events into stories. Stories give events meaning.

Not all events are stories.

I always got a bit pissed off with those broadsheet sceptics who make their living being passionately angry about homeopathy, God, synchronicity or whatever, because it's as if they can't get past their emotions, and in their rage they become as faith-driven as the beliefs they criticise. I always said they give scientists a bad name. After all, science has to be about asking unthinkable questions, not closing down debate.

Max always mumbles; not in a shy way, but rather as if he's telling you what it will cost to take out your worst enemy, or how much you'd have to pay to rig a horse race.

I feel like crying. There's something so sad about broken concrete.