She hands me an ornament of The Virgin Mary. "Pray to the Holy Mary, Mother of God!" I notice she has a gold chain round her neck. It has the holy cross and a shamrock

Whose ideas breathe through me? Am I a thief? Do I dream my own dreams?

The sea is rushing in now as unconsciousness does.I can see a chord, hear gospel songs as we hoist the sails.The sails are a soft white bird. We are airborne. We are primitive.

It is winter, and very cold. There are icicles against the glass, and frost. I am tracing a pattern, before it melts. Before it fades, and is lost for good, like memories

I want to sling a stone, a small rock into a pool, see it ripple. I want to shake a tree, create a small storm..

I was an unwilling passenger leaving the Big Country. I would miss the mountains and the waterfalls, the treks on broad horses' backs to hidden villages in secret valleys.

Our eyes met. I kissed her soft face, and down the stairs they descended. Their voices blended into an echo, a murmur. I ventured barefoot into the bedroom. The dark gown lay crumpled upon the bed

There were women who navigated in canoes, holding their children, the beguiling wind blowing soft sleet kisses, raining upon their skins

I was climbing high, high up Pen Dinas Head among the sparkling yellow gorse, sea birds and white heather, with the oily sheep huddled together against the wind

I can see the caravanserai, like a mirage in the distance. The heat hums. I thought I saw water. What would you have on these trade winds for your comfort?

People wonder why you choose certain subjects to write about. The truth is: you don't really. They choose you

Pattaya is what the end of civilization will look like.

It is best to learn as we go not go as we have learned.

Without changing our pattern of thought, we will not be able to solve the problems we created with our current patterns of thought

The girls you meet are never very far from their worst-case scenario.

Strive always to improve the instrument.

I may cut my coat to follow fashion, sir, but not my conscience.

Let muddy water stand and it will become clear.

I tell my story, not because it is unique, but because it is not. It is the story of many girls.

It has always touched my heart to sense so deeply how much the Father loved His eldest son.