I remember once walking out hand in hand with a boy I knew, and it was summer, and suddenly before us was a field of gold. Gold as far as you could see. We knew we'd be rich forever. We filled our pockets and our hair. We were rolled in gold. We ran through the field laughing and our legs and feet were coated in yellow dust, so that we were like golden statues or golden gods. He kissed my feet, the boy I was with, and when he smiled, he had a gold tooth. It was only a field of buttercups, but we were young.

Love is the one thing stronger than desire and the only proper reason to resist temptation.

I spin worlds where we could be together. I dream you. For me, imagination and desire are very close.

I am a writer who happens to love women. I am not a lesbian who happens to write.

You don't get over it because 'it' is the person you loved.

And if I say to you that I am glad of everything we have done together, and sorry that we will not be here together in forty years, laughing at a faded photo of you impersonating a lion, it having withered well, you less so, as we stand fabulously old, in a city that understands what spirit it takes to be old, to be beautiful, to be much looked at, to be itself, to be never quite caught, to have a past, to be content, to have seen much, to have remained, to have continued...

There's something about the authenticity rather than the autobiography that makes my story and my pain move across and become your story and your pain.