What is pertinent is the calmness of that beauty, its sense of restraint.

I don't have a deep link with England like, say, Jonathan Coe or Hanif Kureishi might demonstrate. For me it is like a mythical place.

You say you’re sure? Sure that you’re in love? How can you know it? You think love is so simple?

The fantasy never got beyond that—I didn’t let it—and though the tears rolled down my face, I wasn’t sobbing or out of control. I just waited a bit, then turned back to the car, to drive off to wherever it was I was supposed to be.

We took away your art because we thought it would reveal your souls. Or to put it more finely, we did it to prove you had souls at all.

What I wished more than anything was that the thing hadn't happened at all, and I thought that by not mentioning it I'd be doing everyone else a favor.

Indeed — why should I not admit it? — in that moment, my heart was breaking.