It took the whole of Creation to produce my foot, my each feather: now I hold Creation in my foot.

I shall also take you forth and carve our names together in a yew tree, haloed with stars.

You are who you choose to be.

You could become internationally famous - you're Gemini, and according to antique authority have a literary talent, which of course your letters prove.

He was his own leftover, the spat-out scrag. He was what his brain could make nothing of.

The real mystery is this strange need. Why can't we just hide it and shut up? Why do we have to blab? Why do human beings need to confess?

What’s writing really about? It’s about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life.