I work late at night. I'm awake and nobody bothers me. It's quiet and things come and talk to me in the silence.
After a gig I always head back to the hotel, remembering granny's words of wisdom. I cancel the late-night pizza and watch the Jonathan Ross show instead.
Night, which in Autumn seems to fall from the sky so suddenly, chilled us...
Dark night of the soul,” said Jesus, “Happens to everybody sooner or later.
Beneath my dress is a ladder of desire, that I climb tonight and each night after that.
Who was I? The stranger was footsteps in the snow a long time ago.
I fell asleep that night in the arms of a killer. I'd never slept better.
No. No, I don’t want my hands restrained.” “Yes. You do.
Reporters trade in pain. It sells papers. Everyone knows that.
It's cloaked in cultural mumbo jumbo, but I assure you that it is very hard science.
One thing about London is that when you step out into the night, it swallows you.
The man who'll lay the last stone here isn't even born yet.
I wasn't entirely sure, but a polite John Pritkin might be a sign of the apocalypse.
Tell me half a cup’s worth of story and we’ll call it a night.
I can smell the crazy on that man from here. I have a nose for it.
Here, you are exceptional...There, who knows? They might not value you as much as we do.
Sarcasm is wasted on those who haven’t had a decent night’s sleep, my darling.
A marriage of two independent and equally irritable intelligences seems to me reckless to the point of insanity.
...the child trying not to appear as a child, of the strenuousness with which she tried to present the face of a convincing adult.
We still counted happiness and health and love and luck and beautiful children as "ordinary blessings.
Medicine, I have reason since to notice more than once, remains an imperfect art.
