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.
Of course, people will laugh at you, but people laugh at a great many things so there is no need to take it personally.
Now that physics is proving the intelligence of the universe what are we to do about the stupidity of mankind? I include myself. I know that the earth is not flat but my feet are. I know that space is...
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.
My own heart, like this wild place, has never been visited, and I do not know whether it could sustain life.
My grandmother whispering to herself, over and over, David is in heaven now, David is in heaven now,' my mind repeating Schrodinger's Cat, Schrodinger's Cat.
Like my grandmother he kept secrets the way other people kept fish. They were a hobby, a fascination, his underwater collection of the rare and the strange. Occasionally something would float up to th...
Life has never been All or Nothing- it's All and Nothing. Forget the binaries.
It's so crude' complained her mother, who believed in Good Taste the way Sunday worshipers believed in the Immaculate Conception. She wasn't quite sure what it was but she was sure it was important.
In therapy, the therapist acts as a container for what we daren't let out, because it is so scary, or what lets itself out every so often, and lays waste to our lives.
In the presence of love, hearth and quest become one.
In the heat of her hands I thought, This is the campfire that mocks the sun.
In a vacuum all photons travel at the same speed. They slow down when travelling through air or water or glass. Photons of different energies are slowed down at different rates. If Tolstoy had known t...
If the sun is shining, stand in it – yes, yes, yes. Happy times are great, but happy times pass – they have to – because time passes.
If I let them take away my demons, I'll have to give up what I've found.
I've lived my life like a serial killer; finish with one part, strangle it and move on to the next. Life in neat little boxes is life in neat little coffins, the dead bodies of the past laid out side...
I was not so sure but too tired and too relieved to go further that night. To reach one another again had been far enough.
I have a theory that every time you make an important choice, the part of you left behind continues the other life you could have had.
I had to leave. She would have died for my sake. Wasn’t it better for me to live a half life for her sake?
I felt miserable. When Keats felt miserable he always put on a clean shirt. But he was a poet.