It's why I am a writer...To avoid the narrow mesh of Mrs Winterson's story I had to be able to tell my own.
There is a thin line of me, wavering and not strong, that wants to learn the language of beasts and water and night.
Everyone knows a homosexual is no closer to being a woman than a rhinoceros.
I tried to copy my parents, as monkeys do, but they were trying to copy me, looking to the child for the energy and hope they had long since lost.
The library was quiet. It was busy but it was quiet and I thought it must be like this in a monastery where you had company and sympathy but your thoughts were your own.
She was a monster, but she was my monster.