He couldn’t go on. He went on.
You have to relax, write what you write. It sounds easy but it's really, really hard. One of the things it took me longest to learn was to trust the writing process.
Tragedy alters everything.
It was better to tell such stories close to the river than in a drawing room. Words accumulate indoors, trapped by walls and ceilings. The weight of what has been said can lie heavily on what might ye...
All children mythologise their birth. It is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind and soul? Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won’t be the truth: it will be a...
Tightly drawn into a mask of endurance.
You are suffering from an ailment that affects ladies of romantic imaginations. Symptoms include fainting, weariness, loss of appetite, low spirits. While on one level the crisis can be ascribed to wa...
What better place to kill time than a library?
L'appetit vient en mangeant. Appetite comes by eating. Your appetite will come back, but it must be met halfway. You must want it to come.
I don't pretend reality is the same for everyone.
Turn all the mirrors to the wall.
Flat brown bangs, my straight skirt and navy cardigan.
The cat, I remember.
Pero ¿qué tormenta golpea en silencio?
Margaret Lea. The biographer.
Wall of yew twice
The house picked up again its long, slow project of decay.
The Missus stood like a ghost.
Of course I loved books more than people.
It was sublime—and the sublime is not to be trusted.