The world is not real for me until it has been pushed through the mesh of language.

The white May blossom swooned slowly into the open mouth of the grave.

I am the worst judge of my books.

I would be far more critical than any reviewer could be of my own work. So I simply don't read them.

I'm full of self-doubt. I doubt everything I do. Everything I do is a failure.

And indeed nothing had happened, a momentous nothing, just another of the great world's shrugs of indifference.

I don't own a Kindle, no. I love books, they are beautiful objects.