Part fact part fiction is what life is. And it is always a cover story. I wrote my way out.

I dream of flight, not to be as the angels are, but to rise above the smallness of it all. The smallnesss that I am. Against the daily death the iconography of wings.

There's no such thing as autobiography, there's only art and lies

Are we all living like this? Two lives, the ideal outer life and the inner imaginative life where we keep our secrets?

Love is vivid. I never wanted the pale version. Love is full strength. I never wanted the diluted version. I never shied away from love's hugeness but I had no idea that love could be as reliable as the sun. The daily rising of love.

I have a head for heights it's true, but no stomach for the depths. Strange then to have plumbed so many.

Where you are born--what you are born into, the place, the history of the place, how that history mates with your own-- stamps who you are, whatever the pundits of globalisation have to say.