“The kneading of memory makes the dough of fiction, which, as we know, can go on yeasting for ever...”

“Kneading memory makes the dough of fiction; which we know, sometimes never stops rising.”

“Your tummy, soft aswarm dough. I knead and knead, thenbake it with a nap.”

“And there is escaping things the knowledge of which makes one unhappy. If "truth" is what we know and are aware of, in the most engrossing fiction we escape truth. Whatever else it is, drama is forgetfulness. We can forget and forget that we are forgetting. It is temporary mind control. If memories are pain, fiction is anesthesia.”

“Lying between the sheets, she felt different; her body had turned into bread dough, dough that's been kneaded and pounded till it's grey, lumpen, no yeast in it, no lightness, no prospect of rising. Her arms lay stiff by her sides. When, finally, she drifted off to sleep, she dreamt she was on her knees in a corner of the room, trying to vomit without attracting the attention of the person who was asleep on the bed. Her eyes wide open in the darkness, she tried to cast off the dream, but it stayed with her till morning.”

“Leavening the flat bread of what we know, with the yeast of what we dream may come to pass.”