It's a discovery of a story when I write a book, a case of inching ahead on each page and discovering what's beyond in the darkness, beyond where you're writing.

People don't write about kids; you have to give them a lot of freedom, and that causes anarchy and that causes farce.

Women want everything of a lover. And too often I would sink below the surface. So armies disappear under sand. And there was her fear of her husband, her belief in her honour, my old desire for self-sufficiency, my disappearances, her suspicions of me, my disbelief that she loved me. The paranoia and claustrophobia of hidden love.

Every night I cut out my heart. But in the morning it was full again

This last night we tear into each other, as if to wound, as if to find the key to everything before morning.

From this point on, she whispered, we will either find or lose our souls.

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