To be closed from everything, and yet to feel, to think...This is the truth of hell, stripped of its gaudy medievalisms. This loss of contact.

I'm insatiably curious.

One of the things that writing has taught me is that fiction has a life of its own. Fictional places are sometimes more real than the view from our bedroom window. Fictional people can sometimes become as close to us as our loved ones.

Somehow the anticipation of pain can be even more troubling, more a misery than the pain itself.

From a very young age my mother persuaded me that I could write for fun, but I had to have a proper job - very good advice.

I like literature that you respond to in some way. You laugh, you cry, you turn the light on - that's great, it's eliciting a response by proxy.

Some things can be both real and imaginary at the same time, . . . some lies can be true, . . . broken faith may be restored.