Every time I think I'm about to seize the moment, it drifts back into the shadows, just beyond my reach.
That's my fault, of course, because I behaved stupidly, like a child, because I didn't like feeling rejected. I need to learn to lose a little better.
People think it's terribly sad to spend Christmas alone, but it's no sadder, really, than spending any other day alone, is it?
I was commissioned to write some romantic fiction, and I really liked doing those, and they were very instructive in terms of building characters and plots. But it never felt right for me.
I'm not romantic, and I don't like Christmas.
She must be very secure in herself, I suppose, in them, for it not to bother her, to walk where another woman has walked before. She obviously doesn’t think of me as a threat. I think about Ted Hughes...
We now know that memories are not fixed or frozen, like Proust's jars of preserves n a larder, but transformed, disassembled, reassembled, and recategorised with every act of recollection. ~Hallucinat...
We now know that memories are not fixed or frozen, like Proust’s jars of preserves in a larder, but are transformed, disassembled, reassembled, and recategorized with every act of recollection. —Olive...
Life is not a paragraph, and death is no parenthesis.(This is a reference to an E.E. Cummings poem within the author's work)