“The voice of Love seemed to call to me, but it was a wrong number.”
Freddie experienced the sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoy's Russian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day's work strangling his father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the city's reservoir, he turns to the cupboards, only to find the vodka bottle empty.
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“The voice of Love seemed to call to me, but it was a wrong number.”
“He had just about enough intelligence to open his mouth when he wanted to eat, but certainly no more.”
“I know I was writing stories when I was five. I don’t remember what I did before that. Just loafed, I suppose.”
“A melancholy-looking man, he had the appearance of one who has searched for the leak in life's gas-pipe with a lighted candle.”
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