Even If They Knew The Truth Of

Every Time I Write A Book, I've Probably Taken Five Years Off My Life.

I Felt That I Could Swim For Miles, Out Into The Ocean: A Desire For Freedom, An Impulse To Move, Tugged At Me As Though It Were A Thread Fastened To My Chest. It Was An Impulse I Knew Well, And I Had Learned That It Was Not The Summons From A Larger World I Used To Believe It To Be. It Was Simply A Desire To Escape From What I Had.

The 'good' Mother, With Her Fixed Smile, Her Rigidity, Her Goody-goody Outlook, Her Obsession With Unnecessary Hygiene, Is In Fact A Fool. It Is The 'bad' Mother, Unafraid Of A Joke And A Glass Of Wine, Richly Self-expressive, Scornful Of Suburban Values, Who Is, In Reality, Good.

I Don't Really Believe In Stories, Only In The People Who Tell Them.

It Is Interesting How Keen People Are For You To Do Something They Would Never Dream Of Doing Themselves, How Enthusiasticall Y They Drive You To Your Own Destruction.