What began it all was the bright bone of a dream I could hardly hold onto.

If she were a writer she would collect her pencils and notebooks and favourite cat and write in bed. Strangers and lovers would never get past the locked door.

she had a laugh that hinted it had rolled around once or twice in the mud.

I don't see novels ending with any real sense of closure.

I believe in such cartography – to be marked by nature, not just label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. ... All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.

He has been disassembled by her. And if she has brought him to this, what has he brought her to?

When I read biographies, I skip the first thirty pages about the childhood because it doesn't seem interesting to me.