I held out my book. It was precious to me, as were all the things I'd written; even where I despised their inadequacy there was not one I would disown. Each tore its way from my entrails. Each had shortened my life, killed me with its own special little death.

Madness. I did not get myself born to die. I have better things to do.

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

I never know where I am going, though. That is part of what makes it so wonderful. And after all, who does?

If you run away from trouble, it always follows.' Rather my impression, too. Though that never stopped me trying.

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.

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