In a way Winter is the real Spring - the time when the inner things happen, the resurgence of nature.

Writers are always anxious, always on the run--from the telephone, from responsibilities, from the distractions of the world.

We hide the truer part of ourselves when we love.

...people liking you or not liking you is an accident and is to do with them and not you. That goes for love too, only more so.

I am not kind, I cut people off as with shears and I drop them like nettles.

When you fall in love, it is spring no matter when. Leaves falling make no difference, they are from another season.

For me to write I have to be, a, alone, and b, know that nobody is going to question me. I write the way a thief steals; it's a little covert.