When I began to write our story down, I thought I was writing a record of hate, but somehow the hate has got mislaid and all I know is that in spite of her mistakes and her unreliability, she was better than most. It's just as well that one of us should believe in her: she never did in herself.

I aim to be content with what I produce. It's an aim I never achieve, but I go over my work word by word, time and again, so as to be as little dissatisfied as possible.

They are always saying God loves us. If thats love Id rather have a bit of kindness.

There are times when a lover longs to be also a father and a brother: he is jealous of the years he hasn't shared.

Perhaps the comparison is closer to the Chinese cook who leaves hardly any part of a duck unserved.

As long as nothing happens anything is possible.

I wrote at the start that this was a record of hate, and walking there beside Henry towards the evening glass of beer, I found the one prayer that seemed to serve the winter mood: O God, You've done enough, You've robbed me of enough, I'm too tired and old to learn to love, leave me alone forever.