“So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. FOREWORD Forever Fifteen was born of a dream I had in 2002, a dream that was part nightmare. The nurse sent for him as soon as she saw that you were conscious. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. “YOU had to come in.
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