How many of us want any of us to see us as we really are?

I choose this story above all others because it's a story I'm struggling to end.

My characters are always on the outside; the spotlight's not on them. But they do get somewhere.

Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body. Your morse code interferes with my heart beat. I had a steady heart before I met you, I relied upon it, it had seen active service and grown strong. Now you alter its pace with your own rhythm, you play upon me, drumming me taut.

Nobody knows anything about Shakespeare the person. It's all legend, it is all rumor.

There's no such thing as effortless beauty - you should know that. There's no effort which is not beautiful - lifting a heavy stone or loving you. Loving you is like lifting a heavy stone. It would be easier not to do it and I'm not quite sure why I am doing it. It takes all my strength and all my determination, and I said I wouldn't love someone again like this. Is there any sense in loving someone you can only wake up to by chance?

Confidence and superiority: It's the usual fundamentalist stuff: I've got the truth, and you haven't.