Alex folded into the door-frame like Lauren Bacall. It was only 8.30 a.m., but already it was time to throw in the white towel. The day had looked good. The day had lied. He felt he could not fight days like this. He believed utterly that there are days in which it is revealed that someone has written a cruel story about you for their own entertainment. He believed, further, that on such days all you can do is follow, dumbly, with your knuckles grazing the ground.

Zadie Smith The Autograph Man p.  55