"I think of myself as somebody not at home, I suppose. Not at home anywhere, not at home ever. But I think of that as a definition of a writer: somebody not ...

One can't write directly about the soul. Looked at, it vanishes. --- Virginia Woolf That's because the act of looking is the soul.

The long grey field is distinguishable from the long grey sky only by a shade. The shade has a number. The woman is sitting in front of the window, at the de...

« Il n'existe que trois êtres respectables : Le prêtre, le guerrier, le poète. Savoir, tuer et créer. Les autres hommes sont taillables et corvéables, faits ...

The road led from one room to another. There were stairs between them, nothing horizontal, all skies. But in the new room, closer to the stars, there were tw...

There are Greek names – hermetic, austere, looking down on you from the complex layers of their statuesque psyche (though you know Greek statues used to be p...

The scene is detailed, with odours, colours and textures approaching you, nearing your distant, modern, suddenly still world. The descriptions are sensual, b...

"Where do you want to go?" she asked, as the Cathedral stood behind them, heavy and quiet. He didn’t know. So they walked aimlessly searching for something t...