Two people who are a little bit deluded in each other's favour. That's what love is, isn't it?

I rarely ever put my head above the rampart and see where this big lumbering behemoth called 'global literature' is going.

For white men, to live is to own, or to try to own more, or to die trying to own more. Their appetites are astonishing! They own wardrobes, slaves, carriages, houses, warehouses, and ships. They own ports, cities, plantations, valleys, mountains, chains of islands. They own this world, its jungles, its skies, and its seas. Yet they complain that Dejima is a prison. They complain they are not free.

Write something every single day, even if it's just three lines. And it doesn't matter if it's any good - just write something every day.

The human world is made of stories, not people. The people the stories use to tell themselves are not to be blamed

I think words operate like musical notes that the eyeball hears.

Mother used to say escape is never further than the nearest book. Well, Mumsy, no, not really. Your beloved large-print sagas of rags, riches, and heartbreak were no camouflage against the miseries trained on you by the tennis ball launcher of life, were they? But, yes, Mum, there again, you have a point. Books don’t offer real escape, but they can stop a mind scratching itself raw.