Where you are born--what you are born into, the place, the history of the place, how that history mates with your own-- stamps who you are, whatever the pundits of globalisation have to say.

When I fell in love it was as though I looked into a mirror for the first time and saw myself.

We bury things so deep we no longer remember there was anything to bury. Our bodies remember. Our neurotic states remember. But we don't.

There are voices and they must be heard.

Children, I suppose, are always unfinished business: they begin as part of your own body, and continue as separate as another continent.

Love's lengthways splits the heart in two - the heart where you are, the heart where you want to be.

Thinking about time is to acknowledge two contradictory certainties: that our outward lives are governed by the seasons and the clock; that our inward lives are governed by something much less regular-an imaginative impulse cutting through the dictates of daily time, and leaving us free to ignore the boundaries of here and now and pass like lightning along the coil of pure time, that is, the circle of the universe and whatever it does or does not contain.