The Vicar (looking down soothingly from the pulpit): 'Some of us remember David Melrose as a paedophile, an alcoholic, a liar, a rapist, a sadist, and a "thoroughly nasty piece of work". But, you know, in a situation like that, what Christ asks us to say, and what he would have said himself in his own words is' (pausing) '"But that's not the whole story, is it?"'

Honest John: 'Yes, it is.'

This needle fever had a psychological life of its own. What better way to be at once the fucker and the fucked, the subject and the object, the scientist and the experiment, trying to set the spirit free by enslaving the body? What other form of self-division was more expressive than the androgynous embrace of an injection, one arm locking the needle into the other, enlisting pain into the service of pleasure and forcing pleasure back into the service of pain?

The way other people felt about love, he felt about heroin, and he felt about love the way other people felt about heroin: that it was a dangerous and incomprehensible waste of time.

My hatred for my father, and my love for drugs, are the most important relationships in my life

He checked his pills again (lower right pocket) and then the envelope (inside left) and then the credit cards (outer left). This nervous action, which he sometimes performed every few minutes, was like a man crossing himself before an altar — the Drugs; the Cash; and the Holy Ghost of Credit.

They fuck you up. They don't mean to, but they do.

The general feeling that his body was held together with paper clips and safety pins and would tear apart at the slightest strain.

Thank God his father had died. Without a dead parent there was really no excuse for looking so awful.

Who could guess what exquisite torments lay ahead in the holiday camps of eternity. It almost made one grateful to be alive.