❝ Love is the heat of his breath on my neck when he sleeps, waking up with the air burst open and his long fingers twined in my hair; wanting the shadows below his lips and eyes to flicker as he trembles, trembles with that early morning smile, still thick and golden from a night of restlessness; blanket-trenches carved across his cheeks in dirty red slices like the contours of a battlefield.

❝ The idea of being weighed down made me uneasy, as if I lived on the surface of a frozen lake and each new trapping of domestic life - a pot, a chair, a lamp - threatened to be the thing that sent me through the ice. The only exception was books, which I acquired freely, because I never really felt they belonged to me. Because of this, I never felt compelled to finish those i didn’t like, or even a pressure to like them at all. But a certain lack of responsibility also left me free to be affected. When at last I came across the right book the feeling was violent: it blew open a hole in me that made life more dangerous, I couldn’t control what came through.