“But as I spoke to him, all I could feel was love. That was ridiculous. And I am deeply, deeply suspicious of it.”

“And he is about seventy, very dignifed, unwell, and mad. Yes, he is mad. That is to say, psychotic, and I see from his file that he unfortunately was found years ago sheltering in a schoolyard, under a seat, with three dead dogs tied to his leg, which he was dragging about with him. But as I spoke to him, all I could feel was love. That was ridiculous. And I am deeply, deeply suspicious of it.”

“I am dwelling on things I love, even if a measure of tragedy is stitched into everything, if you follow the thread long enough”

“I hate writing, I hate pens and paper and all that fussiness. I have done well enough without it too, I think. Oh, I am lying to myself. I have feared writing. But books have saved me sometimes, that is the truth - my Samaritans.”

“I wanted to listen to him, but I did not want to answer now. That strange responsibility we feel towards others when they speak, to offer them the solace of any answer. Poor humans! And anyway he had not asked a question. He was merely floating there in the room, insubstantial, a living man in the midst of life, dying imperceptibly on his feet, like all of us.”

“To be alone, but to be pierced through with a kingly joy, now and then, as I believe I am, is a great possession indeed.”

“It is worthless talking about what we have been spared by death. Death grins at that I am sure. Death of all creation knows the value of life.”