Your weak point is the open, vulnerable place where you can always be hurt. Love, in all its aspects, opens the self so fully.

What are you that makes me feel thus? Who are you for whom time has no meaning?

I live alone, with cats, books, pictures, fresh vegetables to cook, the garden, the hens to feed.

I go on writing so that I will always have something to read.

There's a whole generation growing up thinking you shouldn't seek knowledge for its own sake, and that theatre and art and books are activities that you do after-hours, rather than things that are at the heart of life. That's a huge change.

They believed that if a mouse found your hair clippings and built a nest with them you got a headache. If the nest was big enough, you might go mad.

It's only a story, you say. So it is, and the rest of life with it - creation story, love story, horror, crime, the strange story of you and I. The alphabet of my DNA shapes certain words, but the story is not told. I have to tell it myself. What is it that I have to tell myself again and again? That there is always a new beginning, a different end. I can change the story. I am the story. Begin.