The Mist Hung In The Air Like

The Blood In My Veins Is Frozen But It Sings Of Love.

Twenty Years Is, After All, A Long Time. We Are Not The Same People We Were. Old Friends, Lovers, Even Family Members: They Are Strangers Who Happen To Wear A Familiar Face. We Have No Right To Claim To Know Anyone After Such A Distance.

I'd Defend The Right For Any Novelist To Experiment With Form Or Language, But If People Don't Take To It, Don't React By Making Out That They Are Thick.

If I Couldn't Get Published Tomorrow I'd Still Be Writing. It's Something To Do With Feeling So Overwhelmed By This Experience Of Life That You Have To Tell Someone About It, And In A Way That Reorders The Experience To Make It Manageable.

The Modern Superstition Is That We're Free Of Superstition.