I Sit At My Window And The

All Of Writing Is A Huge Lake. There Are Great Rivers That Feed The Lake, Like Tolstoy Or Dostoyevsky. And Then There Are Mere Trickles, Like Jean Rhys. All That Matters Is Feeding The Lake. I Don't Matter. The Lake Matters. You Must Keep Feeding The Lake.

We Can't All Be Happy, We Can't All Be Rich, We Can't All Be Lucky - And It Would Be So Much Less Fun If We Were... There Must Be The Dark Background To Show Up The Bright Colours.

A Room Is, After All, A Place Where You Hide From The Wolves. That's All Any Room Is.

Stephan Was Secretive And A Liar, But He Was A Very Gentle And Expert Lover. She Was The Petted, Cherished Child, The Desired Mistress, The Worshipped, Perfumed Goddess. She Was All These Things To Stephan - Or So He Made Her Believe.

Not That She Objected To Solitude. Quite The Contrary. She Had Books, Thank Heaven, Quantities Of Books. All Sorts Of Books.