Illiterarty.com Book reviews and blogs by Bridget

Neverwhere is a whimsical tale about a man called Richard, doors, rats, myths, and what really happens underneath London.

The night air is soaked warm, like raisins for a pudding, with the smell of sweat and smoke and the low rumble of voices.

If this was a car, it would be going cheap—a DeLorean someone died in. Pay cash, clean it yourself.

Through the dark streets they carouse and slide and caper and slither and creep, metamorphising in each streetlight, snatches of snickering song bouncing off the pavements and bitumen and concrete and glass.

If this was an egg, it would be a curate’s egg.

Wearing a mask and reeking of gin, the old sailor rolls crocodile tears down his face over the real tattooed ones.

It’s my turn to go in now.

The second novel of Stephen King—the phrase “classic seventies horror” isn’t necessarily a bad thing!

Not so far from here, there’s a town that’s horseshoed by swamp and marshland, weighed down by dark undertows, strangled by deep roots from the mangrove trees that thrive on the blood and flesh of lost souls and shades.

It’s getting dark. I’ve probably been sitting here now for a couple of hours and I don’t think that I can move because the idea of getting up and getting out means that I would have to figure out what to do next and I just don’t think I can do that.