The point about food is that a lot of it used to be left-overs and recycling.
The poem finds the word that finds the feeling.
The physical memory blunders through the doors the mind has tried to seal. ... Wisdom says forget, the body howls.
The only selfish life is a timid one.
The journey is not linear, it is always back and forth, denying the calendar, the wrinkles and lines of the body.
The heart. Carbon-based primitive in a silicon world.
The asynarte city; two rhythms unconnected, profanity, holiness, and out of that strange bed, art.
She was a committed romantic and an anarcha-feminist. This was hard for her because it meant she couldn't blow up beautiful buildings.
Perhaps it is worse when love has flowed freely to find it one day dammed.
Perhaps all romance is like that; not a contract between equal parties but an explosion of dreams and desires that can find no outlet in everyday life.
People have never had a problem disposing of the past when it gets too difficult. Flesh will burn, photos will burn, and memory, what is that?
People do go back, but they don't survive, because two realities are claiming them at the same time. Such things are too much.
Only later, much later, too late, did I understand how small she (Mrs Winterson) was to herself. The baby nobody picked up. The uncarried child still inside her.
One of us hadn’t finished, why did the other one go? And why without warning? Even death after long illness is without warning. The moment you had prepared for so carefully took you by storm. The troo...
Of course, people will laugh at you, but people laugh at a great many things so there is no need to take it personally.
Of course people will laugh at you, but people laugh at a great many things, so there's no need to take it personally.
Odd that a festival to celebrate the most austere of births should end up being all about conspicuous consumption.
Not much touches us, but we long to be touched. We lie awake at night willing the darkness to part and show us a vision.
Ne sachant quoi lire ni dans quel ordre, j'ai suivi l'alphabet. Dieu merci, elle s'appelait Austen...
Miss Pinch came visiting, and asked me what I intended to do with my Future. She spoke about it as though it were an incurable disease.