There cannot be any true leisure until all the world possesses it equally.

Stained glass, engraved glass, frosted glass; give me plain glass.

I must fight with my weapons. Not his. Not selfishness and brutality and shame and resentment.

Medieval theologians used to dispute how the angels in the heaven spent their time, when not balancing on needle points and singing anthems to the Lord. I know. They slump glued to their clouds, glasses at the ready, as the Archangel Micheal (that well-known slasher) and stonewalling St Peter open against the Devils XI. It could not be Heaven, otherwise.

I do not plan my fiction any more than I normally plan woodland walks; I follow the path that seems most promising at any given point, not some itinerary decided before entry.

We talked for hours. He talked and I listened. It was like wind and sunlight. It blew all the cobwebs away.

I am infinitely strange to myself.