Books by Jane Carmody

They were all running. Running away from or to something. Something as brutal as rejection, lost love or perhaps obsession. For some it was a matter of running out of time, knowledge, faith or self-belief. But for all, the tender, the bruised, the brash, the feisty, it was the constant urgency to endure, to keep going, to squeeze in moments of reflection into tiny matchbox sizes of time and then get on with it.