A well-told lie can heal. Otherwise, what's fiction?

Home was where others had to gather grace. Home was what I wanted to flee.

A well-told lie can heal. Otherwise, what's fiction?

I am no I. I am now part of a we.

You can cry in public as long as you don not sob. Tears are transparent. If you’re walking fast, if the sun’s too strong, no one notices. Sobs intrude. They push their way into people’s consciousness. They feel duty-bound to ask what has happened.

I didn't go to bookshops to buy. That's a little bourgeois. I went because they were civilized places. It made me happy there were people who sat down and wrote and wrote and wrote and there were other people who devoted their lives to making those words into books. It was lovely. Like standing in the middle of civilization.