If time stood still, and we could choose the time, the best time, then love without pain would be all I know.

Love could be fractured and serve different purposes, and that intense love could be divided, between people just as easily as between moments of time.

From time to time it has struck me that as a writer, I've somehow managed to live my life as I had long ago dreamt of doing, based on the Tintin paradigm: on my toes, travelling, senses attentuated, everything just adventure and exploration, curiosity and problem-solving.

Drought brings out the worst in us and it's easy to hate your fellow human beings.

Comfort is beauty muted by heroin. Sadness is beauty drained by lack of it.

In the presence of their love I sensed my lonliness, and I understood for a moment, clearly, that deep and basic human desire for companionship at depth.

Some people are attracted to sickness, to the kind of madness where sparks fly off the head, to the incoherence of despair, masked by nervous energy, which winds up looking like bewildered joy.