When we think of the past it's the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that.

Social media is called social media for a reason. It lends itself to sharing rather than horn-tooting.

In the end, we'll all become stories.

In the First World War, people would be receiving letters from loved ones who had been dead for weeks, and they would not know until that black-bordered telegram arrived. I remember, of course, when it was letters only, or the telephone, and you did not make expensive long-distance calls unless it was, "Come home to the funeral," or the like.

When I was 16 I started publishing all kinds of things in school magazines. My main feedback came from my English teacher, Miss Bessie B. Billings, who said, 'I can't understand this at all, dear, so it must be good.

This is the solstice, the still point of the sun, its cusp and midnight, the year's threshold and unlocking, where the past lets go of and becomes the future; the place of caught breath.

The young habitually mistake lust for love, they're infested with idealism of all kinds.