The Digested Twenty-first Century Read Free

withdrawal only spurred Sheba to greater follies. She begantaking risks and before long Connolly’s mother found out and accused her of sexually abusing her child.
    Sheba had to leave the school, of course, as did I. Her marriage ended and we now share a house. She is coming downstairs.
    ‘I’ve found your notes,’ she yells. ‘It didn’t happen like that at all. I’m leaving.’
    But she can’t. There’s no place else for her to go.
    Digested read, digested: Unbelievable love triangle between the posh, the old and the spotty.
Crossing the Lines

by Melvyn Bragg (2003)
    The tinker drove his horse and cart through the streets of Wigton as cars hummed past. He shook his head sadly. ‘I’m just a cliché to illustrate how the Cumbria of the mid-50s had one foot in the past and one in the future,’ he thought to himself.
    Sam and Ellen dwelt on the portentousness of the novel in which they were appearing. Ellen’s mind turned to Mr Hawesley – she could never call him William. She knew he was attracted to her, but she could never leave Sam. These were deep, northern thoughts – the kind that were best left unarticulated.
    ‘Our Joe’s a good kid,’ Sam said eventually.
    ‘Aye,’ Ellen replied.
    Joe felt himself to be on the cusp of adulthood. He felt a longing to remain part of Wigton, yet at the same time he yearned to break free of its parochial boundaries. He sensed he had a greatness – a knighthood even – within him, but somehow it still felt an inch or two out of reach.
    He stroked his thick, luxuriant hair, his enduring symbol of potency. He watched Richard swagger around the school, and felt a twinge of adolescent insecurity. Would Rachel fall for Richard’s athletic charm or would his hair win the day?
    ‘Would you like to see
On the Waterfront?’
he asked.
    ‘Aye,’ Rachel answered.
    ‘We could go dancing afterwards.’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘So we’re going out together, then?’
    ‘Aye.’
    As the music changed from the foxtrot to skiffle, Joe reflected on how Wigton had one foot in the past and the other in the future.
    ‘I’m worried about Suez,’ he said, a year later.
    ‘Why are we talking about this?’ Rachel asked.
    ‘To show that this book isn’t just a saga, but an important literary event that refracts global events through the prism of small-town northern life.’
    ‘I’ve won a scholarship to Oxford,’ smiled Joe. ‘But first I must go to Paris to be intellectual. And to show the French my hair.’
    Rachel lowered her eyes. She knew she was just an ordinary northern girl, and that she was losing Joe.
    ‘Dear Joe, It’s over. I’ve met a man called Garry,’ she wrote. Joe had never known such pain. ‘I love you,’ he cried. ‘Say we’ll never be apart again.’
    ‘We’ll be together for ever.’
    Joe tugged on his pipe and discussed Beckett with James and his fellow undergraduates. How they admired his intellect and hair. How he admired their class. He hoped Rachel would like them.
    ‘It’s over,’ she said. ‘I can hold you back no longer. Go, conquer the wider world of media and academe.’
    Joe knew she was right. He was too good for her. It was time to move on. But when would fame be his?
    ‘All in good time,’ James muttered.
    ‘In our time,’ replied Joe.
    Digested read, digested: The secret diary of Melvyn Bragg, aged 16 3/4.
Never Let Me Go

by Kazuo Ishiguro (2005)
    My name is Kathy H. I am a carer. As I drive around the country looking after my donors, I like to reflect, in my elegant and refined way, on my childhood at Hailsham.
    I realise now how lucky Tommy, Ruth and I were to be brought up in such surroundings. We even had a sports pavilion where we would go to chatter amongst ourselves. You may wonder why I mention these details, but such empty observations are the hallmark of the consummate prose stylist.
    From time to time, we would talk about donations and the world outside, and then we would shrink back into our sheltered lives. It may