Perhaps all romance is like that; not a contract between equal parties but an explosion of dreams and desires that can find no outlet in everyday life. Only a drama will do and while the fireworks last the sky is a different colour.

I don't see myself as some kind of lone figure standing out there and doing my work in solitary splendour, but as part of the human condition and part of the continuum of writers.

Every journey conceals another journey within its lines: the path not taken and the forgotten angle.

I dream of flight, not to be as the angels are, but to rise above the smallness of it all. The smallnesss that I am. Against the daily death the iconography of wings.

Everyone thinks their own situation most tragic. I am no exception.

There are so many separate selves; no one who writes creatively hasn't felt that.

I think people deceive themselves about themselves, particularly as they get older.