Love Is So Small It Can Tear

Every Night I Cut Out My Heart. But In The Morning It Was Full Again

When I Began To Write Novels, I Wanted To Keep That Element Of Interaction With The Reader That Exists In Poetry, Not Just For The Reader To Be Shepherded From A To B To C To D But To Participate, And The Less You Say Sometimes, The Better It Is. You Know, It's The Way When Someone Speaks Very Quietly, You Move Forward So You Can Listen More Carefully.

What Is Interesting And Important Happens Mostly In Secret, In Places Where There Is No Power.

The Last Three Books Are Much More A Case Of A Moment Of History, What Happened Almost By Accident Or Coincidence, Like Being In The Same Elevator Or Lifeboat.

Her Father Had Taught Her About Hands. About A Dog's Paws. Whenever Her Father Was Alone With A Dog In A House He Would Lean Over And Smell The Skin At The Base Of Its Paw. This, He Would Say, As If Coming Away From A Brandy Snifter, Is The Greatest Smell In The World! A Bouquet! Great Rumours Of Travel! She Would Pretend Disgust, But The Dog's Paw Was A Wonder: The Smell Of It Never Suggested Dirt. It's A Cathedral! Her Father Had Said, So-and-so's Garden, That Field Of Grasses, A Walk Through Cyclamen--a Concentration Of Hints Of All The Paths The Animal Had Taken During The Day.