I hated historical novels with fluttering cloaks.

I know I've had an unusual beginning and a colourful life, but that wouldn't matter if I couldn't make it speak to other people.

Now that physics is proving the intelligence of the universe what are we to do about the stupidity of mankind? I include myself. I know that the earth is not flat but my feet are. I know that space is curved but my brain has been condoned by habit to grow in a straight line. What I call light is my own blend of darkness. What I call a view is my hand-painted trompe-l'oeil. I run after knowledge like a ferret down a ferret hole. My limitations, I call the boundaries of what can be known. I interpret the world by confusing other people's psychology with my own.

I keep myself locked as a box when it matters, and broken open when it doesn't matter at all.

Always in my books, I like to throw that rogue element into a stable situation and then see what happens.

The truth is that love smashes into your life like an ice floe, and even if your heart is built like the Titanic you go down.

Capacity for love in its higher forms seems to be peculiarly human although even in humans it is still peculiar.