Do we change every time we have a new encounter? Are we endlessly mutable? I think these are fascinating questions: it's a rich vein to tap, and I don't think I have exhausted it fully yet.

Is that a good definition of marking the ageing watershed? That moment when you realize - quite rationally, quite unemotionally - that the world in the not-so-distant future will not contain you: that the trees you planted will continue growing but you will not be there to see them.

She's half mad and three parts drunk.

To live as an artist requires hard work or some extraordinary good fortune to come your way.

We all possess, like it or not, the people we know, and are possessed by them in turn.

We keep a journal to entrap that collection of selves that forms us, the individual human being.

I have this lock of hair that keeps falling across my forehead. It drives me mad.