They waited. The door did not open. The rain did not stop. The darkness made a tent and covered them completely.

Complaints about reality are immature.

Elizabeth Hay has intelligence coming out of her fingertips - integrity, insight, and wonder in every paragraph of her writing.She connects. She stirs and provokes.

I write against violence. I write against fascism. I write against one person dominating another.

There are no beginnings, not even to stories. There are only places where you make an entrance into someone else's life and either stay or turn and go away.

What you people who weren't yet born can never know is what it meant to sleep in cities under silent falls of snow when all night long the only sounds you heard were dogs that parked at trains that passed so far away they took a short cut through your dreams and no one even woke. It was the war that changed that. It was. After the Great War for Civilization - sleep was different everywhere.

Literature was intended to be dangerous. Art was meant to be dangerous. Ideas were nothing if they were not dangerous.