To write about someone like myself would be very limiting.

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.

Death means you are in the third person.

The trouble with all of us is we are where we shouldn't be.

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

He turns his back to the far shore and rows toward it. He can in this way travel away from, yet still see, his house....he feels he is riding a floating skeleton...Some birds in the almost-dark are flying as close to their reflections as possible.

Everyone has to scratch on walls somewhere or they go crazy