Every time I think I'm about to seize the moment, it drifts back into the shadows, just beyond my reach.
People think it's terribly sad to spend Christmas alone, but it's no sadder, really, than spending any other day alone, is it?
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.
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)