My mother and I were like two continents moving slowly but inexorably apart; my father, the bridge builder, constantly extending the fragile edifice he had constructed to connect us.

Art, its completeness, its formedness, its finishedness, had no power to console. Words on the other hand, were a lifeline. They left their hushed rhythm behind, a counter to the slow in and out of Emmeline's breathing.

My genius is not so frail a thing that it cowers from the dirty fingers of newspapernen.

Reading can be dangerous.

For me to see is to read. It has always been that way.

I've nothing against people who love truth. Apart from the fact that they make dull companions.

As for you, you are alive. But it's not the same as living.