There was a time when mapmakers named the places they travelled through with the names of lovers rather than their own.

Read him slowly, dear girl, you must read Kipling slowly. Watch carefully where the commas fall so you can discover the natural pauses. He is a writer who used pen and ink. He looked up from the page a lot, I believe, stared through his window and listened to birds, as most writers who are alone do. Some do not know the names of birds, though he did. Your eye is too quick and North American. Think about the speed of his pen. What an appalling, barnacled old first paragraph it is otherwise.

The rulers of the country generally believed that betting eliminates strikes. Men had to work in order to gamble.

Her hand touched me at the wrist. "If I gave you my life, you would drop it. Wouldn't you?" I didn't say anything.

I am not in love with him, I am in love with ghosts. So is he, he's in love with ghosts.

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.

All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.