She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.

A novel is a mirror walking down a road

What is interesting and important happens mostly in secret, in places where there is no power. Nothing much of lasting value ever happens at the head table, held together by a familiar rhetoric. Those who already have power continue to glide along the familiar rut they have made for themselves.

...sometimes we enter art to hide within it. It is where we can go to save ourselves, where a third-person voice protects us.

A blind lover, don't know what I love till I write it out

How we are almost nothing. We think, in our youth, we are the centre of the universe, but we simply respond, go this way or that by accident, survive or improve by the luck of the draw, with little choice or determination on our part.

Come. We must go deeper with no justice and no jokes.