'Darkly angelic prose... a joy to read with the final part in particular recalling David
Foster Wallace at his best' Alex Preston Observer ________________________________ Will's
mother's hokey homily Waste not want not... hisses in his ears as he oscillates furiously on
the spot havering on the threshold between the bedroom and the dying one... all the while
cradling the plastic leech of the syringe in the crook of his arm. Oscillating furiously and
as he'd presses the plunger home a touch more... and more he hears it again and again: Waaaste
nooot waaant nooot..! whooshing into and out of him while the blackness wells up at the
periphery of his vision and his hackneyed heart begins to beat out weirdly arrhythmic drum
fills - even hitting the occasional rim-shot on his resonating rib cage. He waits paralysed
acutely conscious that were he simply to press his thumb right home it'll be a cartoonish
death: That's all folks! as the aperture screws shut forever.
________________________________________ 'Self's writing has the same technicolour velocity
malign comedy as his best novels' Evening Standard 'Refreshing . . . Self is never happier than
when frolicking in the hinterland between sincerity and performative winking hyperbole' TLS
