Moab is My Washpot

Lady Luck is in a monstrous strange mood this afternoon, my booties.

Glory never arrives through the front door. She sneaks in uninvited round the back or through an upstairs window while you are sleeping.

but that’s a whole other candle for a whole other cake.

I suppose this was the first time I had ever felt an urge not to be. Never an urge to die, far less an urge to put an end to myself – simply an urge not to be.

Forgive the pedantry of a frustrated classicist

In John Kett’s past the sun shines and birds sing, in mine there are banks of black thundercloud eternally forming over my head.

For Narcissus to find himself desirable, the water he looks into must be clear and calm and sweet.

Just as it is the love of money that it is the root of all evil, so it is the belief in shamefulness that is the root of all misery.

Acting, after all, is lying, lying for the pure exquisite joy of it, you might think. Only acting isn’t that, not to me at any rate. Acting is telling truth for the pure, agonising hell of it.

I’ll look after you.
The pleasure of saying those words, the warm wet sea of pleasure. Quite extraordinary. A little pet all to myself.