The boy spends most of his time reading. And writing, of course. He copies out sections of books, writes out words and symbols he does not understand at first but that become intimately familiar beneath his ink-stained fingers, formed again and again in increasingly steady lines.

I suppose there will never be a lack of things to say, of stories to be told and shared.

Sometimes I write what I can't paint, and I paint what I can't write. I use a different part of the brain.

I thought a circus environment would be an interesting venue to explore, where you didn't just have one tent with three rings and a show going on but where you could explore different things in different tents.

A woman I should like to think I know rather well and a woman I had always considered a mystery, are in fact the same person.

You're in the right place at the right time, and you care enough to do what needs to be done. Sometimes that's enough.

Perhaps it is controlling the chaos within more than the chaos without.