Words, words, word. Once, I had the gift. I could make love out of words as a potter makes cups of clay. Love that overthrows empire. Love that binds two hearts together, come hellfire & brimstone. For sixpence a line, I could cause a riot in a nunnery. But now -- I have lost my gift. It's as if my quill is broken, as if the organ of my imagination has dried up, as if the proud -illegible word- of my genius has collapsed.

But what humans forget, cells remember. The body, that elephant

Just like ice, lives crack, too. Personalities. Identities.

Every novelist should possess a hermaphroditic imagination.

I wanted to be an actor. My parents were not too keen on that.

Virgin suicide What was that she cried? No use in stayin' On this holocaust ride She gave me her cherry She's my virgin suicide

Sourmelina's secret (as Aunt Zo put it): 'Lina was one of those women they named the island after.