I often think that perhaps there is only a limited amount of memory going about the world, and that when it wants to live again, it steals its nest, like a cuckoo.

“I never knew what an extraordinary thing it could be to write a book. In the fi…”

“We were both humming with music, light and well-being, and in these states anyt…”

“A woman at one of mother's parties once said to me, "Do you like reading?" whic…”

“To her, I knew, I had already taken on the quality of a dream. I was merging in…”