His Monkey Wife

This is Jonathan Collier's first book, and it's not as good as his short stories. But he does have a way with words.

For the heart is, in a sense, like the Prince of Wales; we would not have it cut in stone, yet how pathetic it is when, as at Wembley, we see it modeled in butter.

For the rest, though the reflections of the untutored chimp are scarcely worth the setting down, she was mostly struck by the appearance of abject misery which was apparent in all the passersby, especially in their sickly complexions, their peevish or anxious looks, their slave's gait, and, most of all, in their rare and rickety smiles.
Do not think, however, that she jumped at once to the conclusion, as some more superficially observant stranger might have done, that the great city is on the whole a nasty mistake, and that it would have been better, all things considered, if Highgate Hill were to turn Vesuvius, so to speak, and obliterate, to put it bluntly, all the ugly antheap at its feet. No: she had experiences of her own enough to know that happiness is like some of the lower forms of life, of which, if one of them is cut into pieces, some inconsiderable fragment or other is sure to survive. Thus she had little doubt that, among these hurrying millions, most of whom looked to her (though she knew little of homes and offices) as if they had been both crossed in love and condemned to penal servitude for life, many had compensations, which, however small they might seem to the indifferent spectator, must in logic be so great to each individual concerned that they compensated for the toil, the illness, the worry, and the emotional starvation marked clearly on his face, for they demonstrably withheld him from cutting his throat. "What a wonderful thing a stamp collection must be," thought Emily, "or the construction with one's own hands of a home radio set!"

When a young man, almost alone in London, and, possessed of a modicum of intelligence and a small deposit account, is afflicted with pain greater than he can bear, he is likely to find himself, in obedience to an inexplicable law, in the company of artists.