‘Lying on a French nineteenth-century bed covered with pieces of Kashmiri shawls, in a borrowed apartment full of museum reproductions, worried about a woman who once thought she was being eaten by sharks and is now being eaten by a man.’

– Susanna Moore, The Whiteness of Bones

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‘To write is to pour one’s innermost self passionately upon the tempting paper, at such frantic speed that sometimes one’s hand struggles and rebels, overdriven by the impatient god who guides it – and to find, next day, in place of the golden bough that bloomed miraculously in that dazzling hour, a withered branch and a stunted flower.’

– Colette, Vagabond

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‘The impulse can be made to sound theoretical, and even philosophical, but it is, no doubt, as physical as our blood and marrow. This insatiable desire to write something before I die, this ravaging sense of shortness and feverishness of life, make me cling… to my one anchor – so Virginia Woolf, in her diary, speaks for us all.’

– Joyce Carol Oates, The Faith of a Writer

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