You cut up a thing that's alive and beautiful to find out how it's alive and why it's beautiful, and before you know it, it's neither of those things, and you're standing there with blood on your face and tears in your sight and only the terrible ache of guilt to show for it.

With the inevitability of a tongue returning to probe a painful tooth, we come back and back and back again to our fears, sitting to talk them over with the eagerness of a hungry man before a full and steaming plate.

I really believe that there is an enormous appetite amongst readers for an originality of vision. In other words, be true to your own dreams and there will always be people who want to hear them.

No tears, please. It's a waste of good suffering.

Everybody is a book of blood; wherever we're opened, we're red.

Maybe the man had taken the wrong turning, but at least he'd travelled some extraordinary roads.

Your flesh is killing your spirit. You have forsaken yourself.