These days everyone was insisting on their identity, coming out as a man, woman, gay, black, Jew - brandishing whichever features they could claim, as if without a tag they wouldn’t be human.

Security and safety were the reward of dullness.

If jealousy was the vindaloo of love, I'd imagined her tongue burning, and such a fire forcing her to spill her truth.

I guess writing is a kind of therapy in the sense that there are things you need to say and you say them, and better out than in.

Fundamentalism is dictatorship of the mind

I've never had any desire to be good. I don't like goodness particularly.

My guess is that she is uncomfortable in such an intransigent world but is unable to live accordingly to her own desire.