I like writing about women, weak and strong, pathetic and heroic. I like writing about men, ditto. And all the variants of men and women, beasts and demons.

A rose by any other name Would get the blame For being what it is-- The colour of a kiss, The shadow of a flame. A rose may earn another name, So call it love; So call it love I will, And love is like the sea, Which changes constantly, And yet is still The same.

I began to feel lighthearted. Don't ever do that; it tempts some dark and evil force abroad in the universe.

What is any of this to us? Time is endless and ours. Love and Death are only the games we play in it.

Maidens who stay maidens turn into saints. Old women become sorceresses. Tough jobs, both of these.

Writers tell stories better, because they've had more practice, but everyone has a book in them. Yes, that old cliche.

I will draw you back to me. You shall see. By a chain of stars.