We bury things so deep we no longer remember there was anything to bury. Our bodies remember. Our neurotic states remember. But we don't.

When people looked at him they had the feeling of being shut out. He did not shut them out. He shut himself in.

There are so many separate selves; no one who writes creatively hasn't felt that.

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

In the antiseptic world we try to purge ourselves of difficult things. Don't dwell on it, switch off the light and go home. But this is home. I have to be a home to myself. I am the place I come back to and I can't keep hiding difficult things in trunks. Soon the house will be full of trunks and I perched on top of them with the phone saying, "Yes, I'm fine, of course, I'm fine, everything's fine." The trunks shudder.

One room is always enough for one person. Two rooms is not enough for two people. That is one of the conundrums in life.

Always in my books, I like to throw that rogue element into a stable situation and then see what happens.