Grief is the Thing with Feathers by Max Porter 

★★☆☆☆ (2/5)

• For a souvenir, for a warning, for a lick of night in the morning. For a little break in the mourningunnamed

• So, yes. I do eat baby rabbits, plunder nests, swallow filth, cheat death, mock the starving homeless, misdirect, misinform. Oi, stab it! A bloody load of time wasted. But I care, deeply. I find humans dull except in grief. There are very few in health, disaster, famine, atrocity, splendour or normality that interest me

• She was not busy dying, and there is no detritus of care, she was simply busy living, and then she was gone

• You remind me of everything I have ever been interested in

• Once upon a time there was a demon who fed on grief. The delicious aroma of raw shock and unexpected loss came wafting from the doors and windows of a widower’s sad home.

• I remember a story about a Japanese writer who fell on his own sword and it was so sharp it cut through blood and came out clean from his back.

• Ghosts do not haunt, they regress

• Once upon a time there were two boys who purposefully misremembered things about their father. It made them feel better if ever they forgot their mother

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