About Lauren Beukes: Lauren Beukes is a South African novelist, short story writer, journalist and television scriptwriter.
World needs more angels, even plywood ones.
The dream knows what they are waiting for, even if they don’t themselves. The end of everything. The moment when it reveals its miracle boy and all the eyes will look and their seeing will be horror and glory and wonder and it will pierce the skin ...
Explosions and fighting robots and shit. What’s that got to do with the heart?
People don’t want novelty – they want the reassurance of familiarity. No-one wants to be challenged, no-one wants to have their minds blown. There is an insatiable appetite for affirmation.
Florrie smiles with unmoderated joy, because she can't see that most people bank their happiness like it's something you might run out of
He always thought a muse should be sex on legs.
The original stories are mined out, and all that’s left is fool’s gold.
Twitter is amazing. I advertised for the position of research assistant on Twitter, and both of my researchers came from there.
Fiction is about telling a good story, first and foremost. But of course, everything I'm interested in or angry about leaks into my writing, from art to violence against women.
It's why you need other fingers, other tongues. Only other people can make you feel real.
There are patterns because we try to find them. A desperate attempt at order because we can't face the terror that it might all be random.
Dope don't have no sympathy, not for love or family, definitely not for fear. Put dope and the devil up against each other in the ring, and dope will win out. Every single time.
I'm scared, Mom." ... "It's okay, honey. It's all right. That's the big secret, don't you know? Everyone is. All the time.
She's even been practicing making out with the back of her hand. Which was about as effective as tickling yourself. It's why you needed other fingers, other tongues. Only other people can make you feel real.
Nothing is infinitely reducible. You can split an atom but you can't vaporize it. Stuff sticks around. It clings to you, even when it's broken.
Next time, can you ask him to bring cookies? I don't like to put up with that level of insane unless there's some kind of high-calorie compensation.
Memory is curated. All this paraphernalia you collect to ward off forgetting
Only other people can make you feel real.
(…) everything is finite. Life. Love. All this.' (…) 'Sadness too. Although that's harder to let go of than happiness.
So are you an inmate or a rubbernecker?" she asks. "Rubbernecker," I answer without hesitation. "You?" "I'm a screw. Or on staff, anyway. Used to be an inmate. Repeat offender. Crimes against my body. Puking sickness followed by heroin, which led to ...
