If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heaven. No more damned magic.

When I think about it, if I had to choose, I'd rather be happy than write.

It was the darkness that got you. It was heavy darkness, greasy and compelling. It made walls round you, and shut you in so that you felt like you could not breathe.

before I could read, almost a baby, I imagined that God, this strange thing or person I heard about, was a book.

She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.

I have tried," I said, "but he does not believe me. It is too late for that now" (it is always too late for truth, I thought).

Every word I say has chains round its ankles; every thought I think is weighted with heavy weights.