It's a curious, wanting thing.

I used to hate flying. I would sit there, rigid, convinced that if I relaxed, the plane would drop out of the sky.

She supposed that houses, after all - like the lives that were lived in them - were mostly made of space. It was the spaces, in fact, which counted, rather than the bricks.

life is crap but, every day is an experience

Read like mad. But try to do it analytically - which can be hard, because the better and more compelling a novel is, the less conscious you will be of its devices. It's worth trying to figure those devices out, however: they might come in useful in your own work.

We have a name for your disease. We call it a hyper-aesthetic one. You have been encouraged to over-indulge yourself in literature; and have inflamed your organs of fancy.

What does it say?" I said, when I had. She said, "It is filled with all the words for how I want you...Look.