I have never got on with the quietist movements: they lapse too easily into self-congratulations: I have found the oneness, you have not. I prefer to look outside myself if I possibly can, not inside. Meditation reminds me too forcibly of being made to lie on a mat at nursery school and take an hour's nap.

Take me! Well, not quite take me, love me now, take me eventually

memory is so selective; wishful thinking presses it into service all the time.

I didn't even know I was a feminist until I read it on the back of one of my own books.

I am not cynical. I am just old. I know what is going to happen next.

Only one thing registers on the subconscious mind: repetitive application - practice. What you practice is what you manifest.

Style is what's there when you look at someone's writing and you know that they wrote it and nobody else did.