She wears a deadpan expression, maybe sultry, maybe smoky, maybe wistful, maybe bored.
If this was funnier, contained no sex whatsoever, five times less interesting to look at, but only slightly more suitable for children, it would be a The Charles Schulz Story, published 1971. (Have you READ early Peanuts? Good grief.)
Chemical extraction in a filthy rental, smoke blue walls and shattered cold windows blacked out by sooty towels.
An incredibly candid exploration of a few of the religious and cultural elements of that great and varied nation, India. Love it or hate it, there's just something about it...
The ocean heaves lethargically, restless and sad with unbearable tight tears.
If this was written by a middle-class douchebag with all the observational skill but zero percent of the humour, it would be any Ian Fleming book.
Run. Open the door, slam it shut, run.
Stephen King examines themes of predestination, fate, love and evil in his classic fifth novel, The Dead Zone.
The old man. In the corner, all the sure signs of a consumate smoker painted plain as fragile grey skin on his face, sipping a beer and looking hangdog and blank at the same time.
If this was a dance, it would be the Charleston.
Behind the expensive oak paneling, a dazzle of diamonds taut with anticipation lay in wait.
A disappointing and not overly enthusiastic delve into a relationship between a father and two sons... the struggles, sadness, selfishness, and attempts to do what's right.
The scent of eau de cologne wisps the air, cycling through the vents and ducts and secret places.
This volume brings together thirteen of Edgar Allen Poe’s short stories and poems and couples them with the visual art of thirteen talented and engaging artists.
She sits opposite me, belligerent, narrow-eyed, slumped over.
The fat man of crime is back - in a tale of word games, murder, mayhem, and divine intervention.
His face drops like a bloodhound, sagging through the chin, slack with pain.
If this was a dance, it would be the Lindy Hop.
You creep, insidiously, as I sleep, carried like algal bloom on a polluted tired tide.
When did Ben Elton go from funny social commentator with a penchant for satiric wit to a bitter, bitter old man? Even if you've been in denial for a while, Blind Faith is terribly disappointing.