The bowed head, the buried face. She is silent, she will never speak, never forgive, never reach a hand, never leave this frozen present tense. All waits, suspended. Suspended the autumn trees, the autumn sky, anonymous people. A blackbird, poor fool, sings out of season from the willows by the lake. A flight of pigeons over the houses; fragments of freedom, hazard, an anagram made flesh. And somewhere the stinging smell of burning leaves.

It was too exactly as imagined to be true. But I felt as gladly and expectantly disorientated, as happily and alertly alone, as Alice in Wonderland.

The world began in hazard and will end in it.

The dead live." "How do they live?" "By love.

I love making, I love doing. I love being to the full, I love everything which is not sitting and watching and copying and dead at heart.

In essence the Renaissance was simply the green end of one of civilization's hardest winters.

Most marriages recognize this paradox: Passion destroys passion; we want what puts an end to wanting what we want.