“I haven't changed. Something's happened to me, that's all.”

“I held out my book. It was precious to me, as were all the things I'd written; even where I despised their inadequacy there was not one I would disown. Each tore its way from my entrails. Each had shortened my life, killed me with its own special little death.”

“When I write, I go to live inside the book. By which I mean, mentally I can experience everything I’m writing about. I can see it, hear its sounds, feel its heat or rain. The characters become better known to me than the closest family or friends. This makes the writing-down part very simple most of the time. I only need to describe what’s already there in front of me. That said, it won’t be a surprise if I add that the imagined worlds quickly become entangled with the so-called reality of this one.Since I write almost every day, and I think (and dream) constantly about my work, it occurs to me I must spend more time in all these places than here.”

“Whatever the hell I am, I am Me.”

“A rose by any other nameWould get the blameFor being what it is--The colour of a kiss,The shadow of a flame.A rose may earn another name,So call it love;So call it love I will,And love is like the sea,Which changes constantly,And yet is stillThe same.”

“I will draw you back to me. You shall see. By a chain of stars.”

“Are not all loves secretly the same? A hundred flowers sprung from a single root.”