We came in the wind of the carnival. A wind of change, or promises. The merry wind, the magical wind, making March hares of everyone, tumbling blossoms and coat-tails and hats; rushing towards summer in a frenzy of exuberance.

If you want something you can have it, but you have to do some work. It's the ethic my mother brought me up with.

If you can still write in spite of the fact that you're not getting paid, that nobody cares about what you're writing, that nobody wants to publish it, that everybody is telling you to do something else, and you still want to and you still enjoy it and you can't stop doing it...then you're a writer.

I'm phobic about the idea of being constrained.

I'm not fond of cities: the constant activity and swarms of people.

Anything based on ancient texts is difficult for a modern reader to get their head around.

Library-denigrators, pay heed:suggesting that the Internet is a viable substitute for libraries is like saying porn could replace your wife.