The house with the pomegranate tree was my major acquisition. In this sense, I owned some unreal estate. The odd thing was that every time I tried to see myself inside this grand old house, I felt sad. It was as if the search for home was the point, and now that I had acquired it and the chase was over, there were no more branches to put in the fire.

What is worse? To be chained all day with a bowl of water, or to be free and die of thirst?

I pursue my case, Monsieur, I speak English, Italian and German, and I want justice in all three languages. I have been damaged by unlove. It makes at inappropriate moments when I should be dignified.

Time has shattered, it’s cracked like my lips.

Couples were always keen to return to the task of trying to destroy their lifelong partners while pretending to have their best interests at heart.

I had lost my job. I was no longer officially a minor historian. Perhaps I was history itself, flailing around in a number of directions, sometimes all of them at the same time.

It’s hard to write and be open and let things in when life is tough, but to keep everything out means there’s nothing to work with.

Life is only worth living because we hope it will get better and we’ll all get home safely.

The truth was her husband had the final word because he wrote words and then he put full stops at the end of them. She knew this, but what did his wife know?

We have travelled a long distance from the cow with a bucket of raw milk under its udder. We are a long way from home.’ This.