"How beautiful it is to suffer for a plant, the soul groans into the heart forever, be quiet because everything is useless, man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides, shapes, masked in the shadow of leaves, the wonders of life concealed in the page of a random book, the mind looking into the heart and stretching out, revenge drinking gore and virtue, a palimpsest of hidden words and meanings, the physical presence of a book, a new path, a new world of art with music, 'The Dubliners' realised by each man on the street, re-formed by a spontaneous draw of the eye, on the page, which page, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood."

Allison Sleator