The past beats inside me like a second heart.
These things that were between us, these and a myriad others, a myriad myriad, these remain of her, but what will become of them when I am gone, I who am their repository and sole preserver?
Of the things we fashioned for them that they might be comforted, dawn is the one that works.
He liked to bewilder his pupils, it was a form of tyranny.
At the seaside all is narrow horizontals, the world reduced to a few long straight lines pressed between earth and sky.
Fictional characters are made of words, not flesh; they do not have free will, they do not exercise volition. They are easily born, and as easily killed off.
In order really to write one has to sink deep into the self and become lost there.