London is a small place, and it is very incestuous. People know where you live. Everybody is sort of on top of each other.

I hated historical novels with fluttering cloaks.

I don't write for any group. I write to bring about a change in consciousness.

Whether you want to call it God or the mystery of the cosmos doesn't matter to me.

I do not accept that life has an ordinary shape, or that there is anything ordinary about life at all. We make it ordinary, but it is not.

Everyone who tells a story tells it differently, just to remind us that everybody sees it differently.

Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body. Your morse code interferes with my heart beat. I had a steady heart before I met you, I relied upon it, it had seen active service and grown strong. Now you alter its pace with your own rhythm, you play upon me, drumming me taut.