I’m still not sure I want to be a writer. I think of myself as a storyteller more.
Admitting failure is quite cleansing, but never – pleasurable.
It’s what I’ll be singing in the morning. It won’t be God Save the Ruddy King or All Things bleeding Bright and Beautiful. It’ll be Orange and Lemons for Big Joe, for all of us.
There’s a mouse in here with me. He’s sitting there in the light of the lamp, looking up at me. He seems as surprised to see me as I am to see him. There he goes. I can hear him still, scurrying about somewhere under the hayrick. I think he’s gone now. I hope he comes back. I miss him already.
Any problem can be solved between people if only they can trust each other.
But try as I might, I never got to eat any of her pastries, and do you know, she never even offered me one.
My Albert married his Maisie Brown as he said he would. But I think she never took to me, nor I to her for that matter. Perhaps it was a feeling of mutual jealousy.
When I write I try as far as possible to forget I’m writing it at all. I tell it down onto the page, as if I’m telling it to one person only, my best friend.
He laughed to himself he said because if he did not laugh he would cry.
I have no pity for them, but no hatred either.
Secrets are lies by another name.
I think I have always had a strong sense of justice, of fair play, of what is right and what is wrong.
Tonight, more than any other night, I want to feel alive.
But look after yourself – there will be great dangers on the way. Remember, the right road is never the easy road.
Charlie often told me we were living on borrowed time out here. I don’t want to borrow any more time. I want time to stop so that tomorrow never comes, so that dawn will never happen.
Why does this war have to destroy anything and everything that’s fine and beautiful?
It is so beautiful but home is home, and home is best.
Magic obeys only the heart of the one who uses it. Your magic would always be a kind magic, because you are kind, I can tell. Please stay and help us.
You know something, you never know what lonely is until you are really alone, alone all day, alone all night, with no one to talk to.
Everyone back home in Bamiyan had rifles too. I think just about every man in Afghanistan has a rifle. It.
I ate three before I even touched my tea. They were sweet and crumbly, and succulent with melting butter. She talked on merrily again, to me, to the dog – I wasn’t sure which. I wasn’t really listening. I was looking out of the window behind her. The sun was bursting through the clouds and lighting the hillside.