I always want to be in love, always. It's like being a tuning fork.

Writers, however mature and wise and eminent, are children at heart.

Later as the day cools and they have gone in, the cry of the corncrake will carry across those same fields and over the lake to the blue-hazed mountain, such a lonely evening sound to it, like the lonely evening sound of the mothers, saying it is not our fault that we weep so, it is nature's fault that makes us first full, then empty.

We hide the truer part of ourselves when we love.

In our deepest moments we say the most inadequate things.

Countries are either mothers or fathers, and engender the emotional bristle secretly reserved for either sire.

what makes us so afraid is the thing we half see, or half hear, as in a wood at dusk, when a tree stump becomes an animal and a sound becomes a siren. And most of that fear is the fear of not knowing, of not actually seeing correctly.