Our own front door can be a wonderful thing, or a sight we dread; rarely is it only a door.

Nothing has an unlikely quality. It is heavy.

In the presence of love, hearth and quest become one.

You never give away your heart; you lend it from time to time. If it were not so, how could we take it back without asking?

Do all lovers feel helpless and valiant in the presence of the beloved? Helpless because the need to roll over like a pet dog is never far away. Valiant because you know you would slay a dragon with a pocket knife if you had to.

I don't understand why people talk of art as a luxury when it's a mind-altering possibility.

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