Sometimes, when it’s going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be a love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationery. The true writer, the born writer, will scribble words on scraps of litter, the back of a bus tickets, on the wall of a cell. Emma is lost on anything less than 120gsm.

Somebody should have taken him to a stationary store and pointed out the difference between an envelope and a whore.

Our knowledge of dynamic processes is necessarily inferior to our ability to describe stationary conditions.

Words are dead, until action brings them life.