People make events into stories. Stories give events meaning.
What folly takes light through ether to each eye from every horizon.
Homeopathy seemed . . . both mathematical and poetic.
Routine kills creative thought.
I always got a bit pissed off with those broadsheet sceptics who make their living being passionately angry about homeopathy, God, synchronicity or whatever, because it's as if they can't get past their emotions, and in their rage they become as faith-driven as the beliefs they criticise. I always said they give scientists a bad name. After all, science has to be about asking unthinkable questions, not closing down debate.
Some writers, notably Anton Chekov, argue that all characters must be admirable, because once we've looked at anyone deeply enough and understood their motivation we must identify with them rather than judge them.
For other people, love is like some rare orchid that can only grow in one place under a certain set of conditions. For me it's like bindweed. It grows with no encouragement at all, under any conditions, and just strangles everything else.
I erased the thought from my mind, but I couldn't undo the fact that I'd had the thought in the first place.
The sky was the colour of sad weddings.
Over to my left is the big grey wall in front of the church. Are we the Thoughts of God? a poster asks. No, I realise. It's the reverse.
If something wants to be a story, it will be.
I wonder if the reason I tend to say yes to everything is because I deeply believe that I can survive anything.
But I quite like the way you can talk about science without necessarily using mathematics, but using metaphors instead.
I hate stereotypes and I hate cliche.
Honesty and authenticity are a big deal for me.
I think about stories and their logic and wonder if there can be any such thing as simply "there is a book.
Real life is physical. Give me books instead. Give me the invisibility of the contents of books, the thoughts, the ideas, the images. Let me become part of a book. . . . an intertextual being: a book cyborg, or, considering that books aren't cybernetic, perhaps a bibliorg.
One of the biggest problems for beginning writers is this need to over-explain.
Most people would look at an animal in a cage and instinctively feel that it should be set free. . . . It's a dangerous world out there, filled with predators. . . . What would you prefer? A comfortable, safe, warm, cosy life in a cage, or an uncertain life of freedom.
In real life nothing means anything. Stuff happens and there just is no structure.
One minute I was playing chess and doing maths all the time, the next I had been rerouted into more 'normal' girls' activities: reading, writing stories and worrying about my clothes.
I wonder at what point my life swerved to avoid that, and if that life would have been nicer than the one I've got.
One of the paradoxes of writing is that when you write non-fiction everyone tries to prove that it's wrong, and when you publish fiction, everyone tries to see the truth in it.
So if we're all quarks and electrons ..." he begins. What?" We could make love and it would be nothing more than quarks and electrons rubbing together." Better than that," I say. "Nothing really 'rubs together' in the microscopic world. Matter never really touches other matter, so we could make love without any of our atoms touching at all. Remember that electrons sit on the outside of atoms, repelling other electrons. So we could make love and actually repel each other at the same time.
Homeopaths argue that water has a memory.
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