The Orkney imagination is haunted by time.
The imagination is not an escape, but a return to the richness of our true selves; a return to reality.
We never find what we set out hearts on. We ought to be glad of that.
Hills tell old stories. Cliffs are poets with harps.
The first few glasses of beer were a revelation; they flushed my veins with happiness; they washed away all cares and shyness and worries. I remember thinking to myself, If I could have two pints of beer every afternoon, life would be a great happiness.
Without the story – in which everyone living, unborn and dead, participates – men are no more than bits of paper blown on the cold wind.
In Scotland, when people congregate, they tend to argue and discuss and reason; in Orkney, they tell stories.
Old wisdom out of the cluster of gathering shadows.
As soon as the seal was clear of the water, it reared up and its skin slipped down to the sand. What had been a seal was a white-skinned boy.