Hopeless heart that thrives on paradox; that longs for the beloved and is secretly relieved when the beloved is not there.

To create a past that seemed authentic but would be a fiction, you need an invented language.

I'm always nervous about going home, just as I am nervous about rereading books that have meant a lot to me.

The continuous narrative of existence is a lie. There is no continuous narrative, there are lit-up moments, and the rest is dark. When you look closely, the twenty-four hour day is framed into a moment; the still-life of the jerky amphetamine world. That woman-a pieta. Those men, rough angels with an unknown message. The children holding hands, spanning time. And in every still-life, there is a story, the story that tells you everything you need to know.

Everyone thinks their own situation most tragic. I am no exception.

I think heterosexuality and homosexuality are a kind of psychosis, and the truth is somewhere in the middle.

Two hundred miles from the surface of the earth there is no gravity. The laws of motion are suspended. You could turn somersaults slowly slowly, weight into weightlessness, nowhere to fall. As you lay on your back paddling in space you might notice your feet had fled your head. You are stretching slowly slowly, getting longer, your joints are slipping away from their usual places. There is no connection between your shoulder and your arm. You will break up bone by bone, fractured from who you are, drifting away now, the centre cannot hold.