I have noticed that doing the sensible thing is only a good idea when the decision is quite small. For the life-changing things, you must risk it.

That walls should fall is the consequence of blowing your own trumpet.

I don't write for any group. I write to bring about a change in consciousness.

London is a small place, and it is very incestuous. People know where you live. Everybody is sort of on top of each other.

This is where the story starts, in this threadbare room. The walls are exploding. The windows have turned into telescopes. Moon and stars are magnified in this room. The sun hangs over the mantelpiece. I stretch out my hand and reach the corners of the world. The world is bundled up in this room. Beyond the door, where the river is, where the roads are, we shall be. We can take the world with us when we go and sling the sun under your arm. Hurry now, it's getting late. I don't know if this is a happy ending but here we are let loose in open fields.

You have to engage with people who are different from you and try to work with their thinking and their mind. That's a real challenge.

Islands are metaphors of the heart, no matter what poet says otherwise.