A little tantrum in real life seems so much bigger online.
Anything based on ancient texts is difficult for a modern reader to get their head around.
The wind always brings us back to the same wall
A man who casts no shadow isn't really a man at all.
Divination is a means of telling ourselves what we already know.
Guilleaume left La Praline with a small bag of florentines in his pocket; before he had turned the corner of avenue des Francs Bourgeois I saw him stoop to offer one to the dog. A pat, a bark, a wagging of the short stubby tail. As I said, some people never have to think about giving.
Death should be a celebration. Like a birthday. I want to go up like a rocket when my time comes, and fall down in a cloud of stars, and hear everyone go: ahh!
The battle of good and evil reduced to a fat woman standing in front of a chocolate shop, saying, Will I? Won’t I? in pitiful indecision.
I carried recipes in my head like maps.
I liked her better for showing a little spirit.
Everything comes home, my mother used to say; every word spoken, every shadow cast, every footprint in the sand. It can't be helped; it's part of what makes us who we are.
A spider brings good luck before midnight and bad luck after.
Library-denigrators, pay heed:suggesting that the Internet is a viable substitute for libraries is like saying porn could replace your wife.
I'd rather be a freak than a clone.
I'm politically inclined towards the left, but I don't like to be in anyone's gang; I'm a bit of a loose cannon.
Nat Parson says it's the devil's mark." "Nat Parson's a gobshite." Maddy was torn between a natural feeling of sacrilege and a deep admiration of anyone who dared call a parson 'gobshite.
Like a domestic cat, purring on the sofa by day, but by night, a strutting queen, a natural killer, disdainful of her other life.
The process of writing is a little like madness, a kind of possession not altogether benign.
Love not often, but forever.
I speak as I must and cannot be silent.
I dream a lot, in colour and in sound and scent. Quite a few of my stories have come from dreams.
Children are knives, my mother once said. They don’t mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, don’t we, we clasp them until the blood flows.
As authors, we all expect criticism from time to time, and we all have our ways of coping with unfriendly reviews.
My heroes and heroines are often unlikely people who are dragged into situations without meaning to become involved, or people with a past that has never quite left them. They are often isolated, introspective people, often confrontational or anarchic in some way, often damaged or secretly unhappy or incomplete.
I'm phobic about the idea of being constrained.
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