Quotes About Author

I was writing an earnest novel about cruises in the Caribbean and I just started writing 'Bridget Jones' to get some money, to finance this earnest work, and then I chucked it out.

The rain began again. It fell heavily, easily, with no meaning or intention but the fulfilment of its own nature, which was to fall and fall.

Baltasar Garzón,

Le Vernet, like Gurs and a small number of the other camps across the south-west, was expressly conceived as a punishment or disciplinary camp.

the regime then kept alive these binary categories for nearly forty years,

unprecedented wave of anticlerical violence,

called upon the Catholic faithful to join the war against "Soviet Jewish-Masonic laicism".

a Phrygian bonnet (a well-known symbol of the Republic)

press reports as uncovering how Francoist medicos were hunting for the "red gene".

purification" – which is an absolutely crucial word in Francoist Spain,

The truth is that there is only one terminal dignity - love. And the story of a love is not important - what is important is that one is capable of love. It is perhaps the only glimpse we are permitted of eternity.

The author is at one end of the experience of writing and the reader is at the other, and the book is the contract between you.

The value she gave to the power of relationship was fundamental to Lucretia [Mott]'s sense of social activism.

I've used tarot too. Not often. But sufficient to know how little use the cards are in divining the future and to see how unerringly the cards reflect my deepest states of being, emotions I'd not let myself feel at the time.

The suffering of his body is as naught to the joy of being free from the pain of being seen.

and my eyes slipped to the white panels of cut light in the branches behind them.

writing those lines in his small kitchen, the light wet on the oilskin tablecloth, the night close against the window.

She is unsure about dogs. Big dogs, that is. Small dogs fascinate her for other reasons.

For weeks, in secret heresy, I whispered Dear Horus instead of Our Father when we recited the Lord's Prayer at school assemblies. It was a suitably formal address, I thought, having learned it from writing birthday thank-you notes.

Perhaps I blinked. Perhaps it was as simple as that. And in that tiny black gap which the brain disguises they'd dived into the wood.

She was poised and sympathetic, like a girl who'd just come from the future but didn't want to brag about it.

A song called 'Earth Angel' played in her head all morning—also three trumpets and a piano.

His heavy eyebrows lowered and he made some small, involuntary gesture with his hand that was recognisably superstitious, as if the words 'God forbid' had flowed into his body.

So Mr. Pizarsky had been a poet? That was how he'd said it: "I was a poet." As if the poet had died. He was hiding, perhaps.