I think of love as a force of nature-as strog as the sun, as necessary, as impersonal, as gigantic, as impossible, as scorching as it is warming,as drought-making as it is life-giving.

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

The continuous narrative of existence is a lie. There is no continuous narrative, there are lit-up moments, and the rest is dark.

Strange to dream in the right shape and build in the wrong shape, but maybe that is what we do every day, never believing that a dream could tell the truth.

Shuttered like a fan no-one suspects your shoulder blades of wings.

Each book is a different staging post on the writer's journey, and each book stands by itself, regardless of the writer's relationship to it.

Whoever it is you fall in love with for the first time, not just love but be in love with, is the one who will always make you angry, the one you can't be logical about.