Afterwards, in bed with a book, the spell of television feels remote compared to the journey into the page. To be in a book. To slip into the crease where two pages meet, to live in the place where your eyes alight upon the words to ignite a world of smoke and peril, colour and serene delight. That is a journey no one can end with the change of a channel. Enduring magic.

They are so young, they forget that the world is not as in love with them as they are.

Lies like that are not a sin, they are a sacrifice.

Writing is a hellish task, best snuck up on, whacked on the head, robbed and left for dead.

Memory plays tricks. Memory is another word for story, and nothing is more unreliable.

Do you think there's such a thing as a ghost who masquerades as a person? Do you believe that there are people whose bodies are still alive here on earth but whose souls are already in hell?

It's important to attend funerals. It is important to view the body, they say, and to see it committed to earth or fire because unless you do that, the loved one dies for you again and again.