You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.

A novelist is, like all mortals, more fully at home on the surface of the present than in the ooze of the past.

I confess, I do not believe in time.

I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything, mais je t’aimais, je t’aimais!

There he stood, in the camouflage of sun and shade, disfigured by them and masked by his own nakedness.

I am sentimental,’ she said. ‘I could dissect a koala but not its baby. I like the words damozel, eglantine, elegant. I love when you kiss my elongated white hand.

Genius is finding the invisible link between things.