And so I rehabilitate myself - staying up late this Friday night in spite of vowing to go to bed early, because it is more important to capture moments like this, keen shifts in mood, sudden veering of direction - than to lose it in slumber.

My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.

Living with him is like being told a perpetual story: his mind is the biggest, most imaginative I have ever met. I could live in its growing countries forever.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.

Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?

The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm

Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.