Bernard MacLaverty

It was him and it wasn’t him

Did you ever hear tell of the writer Lynn C. Doyle?’ She shook her head. ‘Well that’s not his real name. It’s a pen name. A joke name. Because it sounds the same as linseed oil. They’re homo-phones. Homo – same, phono – sound.’
‘What?’
‘Things that sound the same. Lynn C. Doyle and linseed oil. Get it?’
She nodded to please him. If he were here now she would say to him Bartók and bar talk. But he was dead, lying in the other room and would never chuckle at her discovery.

Locked in the safe. In isolation.

Do you compose the music or does the music compose you? Where are the notes between the notes? Graces, grace notes or, as the French would have it, agréments.

Neglect your art for one day and it will neglect you for three

Each day she didn’t work drove her deeper into panic.

Catherine could only manage two drinks. She hated the feeling of being out of control. Or throwing up.

I love somebody working with my hair. I could stay here all night.’

, as one of her tutors had once said, architecture was frozen music then she dreaded to think what kind of music this was.

She hated sticky fingers at any time