Writing is an antisocial act.
If a cone had dropped on velvet needles, if a star had lain a silver track across the sky, if the dead had turned in their graves – I swear, I would have heard it, that’s how silent it all was.
Before you hate something you should try to understand it.
We don’t know who we are until we see what we can do.
Silence is a way of saying: we do not have to entertain each other; we are okay as we are.
Children can ask what adults don’t dare to because we don’t want to admit we’re scared and we don’t really want to hear the answers.
You can never do enough for the dead. You search around for comfort but there is no comfort; there never was and never will be. There is only a gradual wearing away of the sharp edges, so that you don’t feel ambushed at every turn, as if you saw the dead suddenly rounding the corner.
You can’t be blocked if you just keep on writing words. Any words. People who get ‘blocked’ make the mistake of thinking they have to write good words.
Intricately plotted, beautifully paced, The Music of the Spheres is an elegant historical novel rich in detail, at times Dickensian in its description of London. Elizabeth Redfern has made an exciting debut.
Talking’s just a nervous habit.
I cleared my throat – it isn’t frogs you get in your throat; it’s memories.
Most people see what they want to, or at least what they expect to.
The English inn stands permanently planted at the confluence of the roads of history, memory, and romance.
Arnold was a dog’s dog. Whenever he shuffled along walks and through alleyways, he always gave the impression of being on to something big.
And so it continued all day, wynde after wynde, From a room beyond came the whistle of a teakettle. Now, you really must join me. I’ve some marvelous Darjeeling, and some delicious petit fours a friend of mine gave me for Christmas.
An idyllic childhood is probably illusion.