I think that poetry is perfect for women raising children, with just bits of time and such need to connect to other women out of the isolation of motherhood.
Writing is a bit like being a god
We start out as little bits of disconnected dust.
If God has nothing better to do than punish schoolgirls for a bit of tomfoolery, then I've no use for God.
I was stuck on the side of a mountain in Scotland. I was looking down on emptiness. I lay on my back and looked around in panic. I prayed to God and relaxed. I realised if I turned carefully on my front I could see bits of grass to hold on to.
I'm actually going to the gym, working on getting not fatter, just a bit bulkier.
I have been a bit of a risk-taker all my life.
I have a file of letters and bits of ephemera from friends who have died. I have had lots of friends who died of AIDS.
I've got one idea I want to do for a film and you know I just enjoy myself doing bits and pieces.
Early days, I was a bit racked , particularly when I did Hitler, for CBS. That was hellish. That stayed with me for quite a long time.
The only difficulty is to know what bits to choose and what to leave out. Novel-writing is not creation, it is selection.
A hero without faults is like an omelet without little bits of eggshell in it.
But just as elevators have changed the shape of buildings and cars have changed the shape of cities, bits will change the shape of organizations, be they companies, nations, or social structures.
When we remember something, we're taking bits and pieces of experience - sometimes from different times and places - and bringing it all together to construct what might feel like a recollection but is actually a construction.
You can always be a little bit better.
I used to write bits and pieces of comedy material for various comics that were at the Windmill. . . as well as my film job, I was under contract, I was allowed to do that and everything.
The magician seemed to promise that something torn to bits might be mended without a seam, that what had vanished might reappear, that a scattered handful of doves or dust might be reunited by a word, that a paper rose consumed by fire could be made to bloom from a pile of ash. But everyone knew that it was only an illusion. The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place.
At some stage I'm going to have to say, 'Right, that's it. I'm stopping for a bit'.
When people censor themselves they're just as likely to get rid of the good bits as the bad bits.
It won't do you a bit of good to know everything if you don't do anything with it.