I'm waiting for the day when my children cease to find my domestic propriety reassuring and actually find it annoying.
Hope is like one of those orchids that grows around toxic waste: lovely in itself - and an assertion, if you like, of indefatigable good - but a sure sign that something nasty lies underneath.
Writing, more than any other art, is indexed to the worthiness of the self because it is identified in people's minds with emotion.
