Every now and then I read a poem that does touch something in me, but I never turn to poetry for solace or pleasure in the way that I throw myself into prose.

Was it love when somebody filled a space in your life that yawned inside you, once they had gone?

You're a prefect? Oh Ronnie! That's everyone in the family!" "What are Fred and I? Next door neighbors?

Oh, come off it,” said Ron, striding over to her and whipping her results out of her hand. “Yep— ten ‘Outstandings’ and one ‘Exceeds Expectations’ at Defense Against the Dark Arts.” He looked down at her, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You’re actually disappointed, aren’t you?

If you love something - and there are things that I love - you do want more and more and more of it, but that's not the way to produce good work.

I'm interested in that drive, that rush to judgment, that is so prevalent in our society.We all know that pleasurable rush that comes from condemning, and in the short term it's quite a satisfying thing to do, isn't it?

I don't need a cloak to become invisible.