“I know love because I am in love. Because of how long I’ve loved. Because of the man I love.”

My heart is like a time capsule-it keeps safe the memory of you. I know it’s harder with you gone than if you had never been here at all-but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

I don’t want to be in a relationship where I feel the constant need to explain myself. I don’t want to live in a world like that either.

I have always thought of memories as fragments, like colored glass shards in a kaleidoscope. It is the source of great beauty in our lives, yet the cause of such heartache. It remains the bridge between our past and present – it gives weight and dimension to our very existence.

I missed you today. Between waking and sleeping, I thought of you.

There are many things in life you can postpone, but love isn’t one of them.

I can’t believe how hard it is. The pain is indescribable. It’s like I’ve been turned into sandstone and my insides are being slowly hollowed out by a chisel and mallet.

In the wrong hands, your past is a weapon.

Let her be herself. Or she will be somebody else’s.

It should be my right to mourn someone who has yet to leave this world but no longer wants to be part of mine.

Every time I see my name, I hear it in your voice.

Give me something I can write about.

Because sooner or later, all kinds of love – crazy love, wild love- fade into the same thing. The love becomes old and predictable -safe.

She would fondly call him her Frankenstein, this man who was a patchwork of all the things she had ever longed for.

I know how hard it is to have to love someone in secret.

That’s the thing about writers – on one hand everything is sacred to them, but, on the other, nothing really is.

To love is a dare, when hope and despair, are gates upon it hinges.

Knowledge is knowing that Frankenstein is not the monster. Wisdom is knowing that Frankenstein IS the monster.

Crime is increasing, trigger happy policing. Panic is spreading, God knows where we’re heading.

So I started out for God knows where. I guess I’ll know when I get there.

What kept me sane was knowing that things would change, and it was a question of keeping myself together until they did.

There are only four people who knew what the Beatles were about anyway.

It’s an addiction and addiction is something I should know something about.

You know, the BBC had not been particularly generous in its deliverance of blues and esoteric kinds of music.

I don’t encourage anybody to do what I do, you know? Why should you? More for me!