That's what alcoholics do. It's in their job description: fall apart and then keep falling apart.

The compelling thing about making art — or making anything, I suppose — is the moment when the vaporous, insubstantial idea becomes a solid there, a thing, a substance in a world of substances. Circe, Nimbue, Artemis, Athena, all the old sorceresses: they must have known the feeling as they transformed mere men into fabulous creatures, stole the secrets of the magicians, disposed armies: ah, look, there it is, the new thing. Call it a swine, a war, a laurel tree. Call it art.

Don't you think it's better to be extremely happy for a short while, even if you lose it, than to be just okay for your whole life?

Why do you have a cigarette lighter in your glove compartment?" her husband, Jack, asked her. "I'm bored with knitting. I've taken up arson

What we need,' Henry says, 'is a fresh start. A blank slate. Let's call her Tabula Rasa.

You're the oddest person I've ever met, you couldn't get rid of me if you tried.

...and I suddenly feel that Henry is there, incredible need for Henry to be there and to put his hand on me even while it seems to me that Henry is the rain and I am alone and wanting him - Clare