Still in my coat and hat, I sank onto the stair to read the letter. (I never read without making sure I am in a secure position. I have been like this ever since the age of seven when, sitting on a high wall and reading The Water Babies, I was so seduced by the descriptions of underwater life that I unconsciously relaxed my muscles. Instead of being held buoyant by the water that so vividly surrounded me in my mind, I plummeted to the ground and knocked myself out. I can still feel the scar under my fringe now. Reading can be dangerous.)

The hours between eight in the evening and one or two in the morning have always been my magic hours. Against the blue candlewick bedspread the white pages of my open book, illuminated by a circle of lamplight, were the gateway to another world.

What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney?

People whose lives are not balanced by a healthy love of money suffer from an appalling obsession with personal integrity.

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

There are too many books in the world to read in a single lifetime; you have to draw the line somewhere.

A good story is always more dazzling than a broken piece of truth.