Circe: The International No. 1 Bestseller - Shortlisted for the Women's Prize for Fiction 2019

But I pressed his face into my mind, as seals are pressed in wax, so I could carry it with me.

I would like to say that all the while I waited to break out, but the truth is, I’m afraid I might have floated on, believing those dull miseries were all there was, until the end of days.

wayward

He does not mean that we are not frightened. Only that: we are here. This is what it means to swim in the tide, to walk the earth and feel it touch your feet. This is what it means to be alive.

incandescent.

Death’s Brother is the name that poets give to sleep. For most men those dark hours are a reminder of the stillness that waits at the end of days. But

Each word was dark as an axe-head, heavy and unrelenting, and my blood drained at every blow.

But perhaps no parent can truly see their child. When we look we see only the mirror of our own faults.

conceit