I write about sex because often it feels like the most important thing in the world.

I hate the word lesbian; it tells you nothing; its only purpose is to inflame.

Infatuation.First Love.Lust.My passion can be explained away.But this is sure: Whatever she touches, she reveals

I drove to Oxford with my van full of petrol and tin cans, as I didn't know there were service stations on the motorway. I pulled up on the hard shoulder and got my cans out. Then I filled up and set off again. That's how naive I was - so much not a cosmopolitan girl.

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

Don't you think it's strange that life, described as so rich and full, a camel-trail of adventure, should shrink to this coin-sized world? A head on one side, a story on the other. Someone you loved and what happened. That's all there is when you dig in your pockets. The most significant thing is someone else's face. What else is embossed on your hands but her?

Slightest accidents open up new worlds.