Over to my left is the big grey wall in front of the church. Are we the Thoughts of God? a poster asks. No, I realise. It's the reverse.

What folly takes light through ether to each eye from every horizon.

But I quite like the way you can talk about science without necessarily using mathematics, but using metaphors instead.

Real life is physical. Give me books instead. Give me the invisibility of the contents of books, the thoughts, the ideas, the images. Let me become part of a book. . . . an intertextual being: a book cyborg, or, considering that books aren't cybernetic, perhaps a bibliorg.

My novels are high concept. I guess big ideas interest me more than, say, the minutiae of domestic life.

Homeopaths argue that water has a memory.

For other people, love is like some rare orchid that can only grow in one place under a certain set of conditions. For me it's like bindweed. It grows with no encouragement at all, under any conditions, and just strangles everything else.