Harper Perennial

was never attracted to paradises flowing with milk and honey, but I envied Hansel and Gretel their gingerbread house: if only the universe we inhabit were completely edible, I used to think, what power we would have over it!

Suddenly the future existed; it would turn me into another being, someone who would still be, and yet no longer seem, myself.

It was an excuse to peruse old journals and letters, to go back to the library and look at newspapers from her childhood, to reread the books that had influenced her as a girl, to swap memories with her sister, and her childhood friends.

Sartre reminded her that the most deeply personal writing was also the most universal.

There was no longer any God to love me, but I should have the undying love of millions of hearts. By writing a work based on my own experience I would re-create myself and justify my existence. At the same time I would be serving humanity: What more beautiful gift could I make it than the books I would write?

Suddenly the future existed; it would turn me into another being, someone who would still be, and yet no longer seem, myself.

One aspiring sleeper posted a note on his door each night before going to bed that read: THE POET IS WORKING

They would like to pause time – just here, just now, in this park, this gorgeous afternoon light.

The sky is the colour of 1936 and the sky is the colour of October