We parked in back and walked down the stairs with their polished brass railings, past the old-fashioned kitchen. We could see the chefs cooking. It smelled like stew, or meat loaf, the way time should smell, solid and nourishing.

here, here is my dark world. you carry it for a change. im out

My father was an engineer - he wasn't literary, not a writer or a journalist, but he was one of the world's great readers. Every two weeks, he'd take me to our local branch library and pull books off the shelf for me, stacking them up in my arms - 'Have you read this? And this? And this?"

For she is my love, and other women are but big bodies of flame.

My loneliness tasted like pennies.

How can I shed tears for a man I should never have allowed to touch me in any way?

She’s never where she is,' I said. 'She’s only inside her head.