I listened as the words became sentences and the sentences became pages and the pages became feelings and voices and places and people.

I will go out again this very night with my rockets and fuses. I will blow them straight out of their comfortable beds. Blow the rooftops off their houses. Blow the black, wretched night to bits. I will not stop. For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.

Most of the mess that is called history comes about because kings and presidents cannot be satisfied with a nice chicken and a good loaf of bread.

For the first time, I saw what was in his heart, and I wondered if he might ever want to look deep enough to see mine.

Funny, 'ow you can 'old a jewel in your 'and, and toss it away, and not even know what you 'ad until it's gone.

Why do you write?' Because I love words and stories so much. Because I would be grief stricken every day of my life if I couldn't write. Because I'm obsessed and compelled. Because I'd be utterly useless at anything else.

A new word. Bright with possibilities. A flawless pearl to turn over and over in my hand, then put away for safekeeping.