I didn’t want to tell the story of myself, but someone I called myself. If you read yourself as fiction, it’s rather more liberating than reading yourself as fact.

I don't know how to answer. I know what I think, but words in the head are like voices underwater. They are distorted.

You’ll get over it…” It’s the clichés that cause the trouble. To lose someone you love is to alter your life for ever. You don’t get over it because ‘it” is the person you loved. The pain stops, there are new people, but the gap never closes. How could it? The particularness of someone who mattered enough to grieve over is not made anodyne by death. This hole in my heart is in the shape of you and no-one else can fit it. Why would I want them to?

Destiny is a worrying concept. I don't want to be fated, I want to choose.

The impulse to worship is impossible to eradicate. Even the most prosaic have to worship something.

When it is time to get to work, I go away completely and don't do anything except the work. And that can be 16 hours a day.

There are voices and they must be heard.