Man's guilt in history and in the tides of his own blood has been complicated by technology, the daily seeping falsehearted death.

When you try to unravel something you've written, you belittle it in a way. It was created as a mystery.

In these night recitations we create a space between things as we felt them at the time and as we speak them now. This is the space reserved for irony, sympathy and fond amusement, the means by which we rescue ourselves from the past.

Stories are consoling, fiction is one of the consolation prizes for having lived in the world.

In a crisis the true facts are whatever other people say they are.

There were moments when she wasn't talking so much as fading into time, dropping back into some funnelled stretch of recent past.

How many beginnings before you see the lies in your excitement?