Every Time I Write A

Hope Is Like One Of Those Orchids That Grows Around Toxic Waste: Lovely In Itself - And An Assertion, If You Like, Of Indefatigable Good - But A Sure Sign That Something Nasty Lies Underneath.

My Children Are Living, Thinking Human Beings. It Isn't In My Power To Regret Them, For They Belong To Themselves.

Even If They Knew The Truth Of Their Own Feelings, Most Mothers Would Be Socially And Emotionally Incapable Of Revealing It.

The Anorexic Body Is Held In The Grip Of Will Alone; Its Meaning Is Far From Stable. What It Says - 'notice Me, Feed Me, Mother Me' - Is Not What It Means, For Such Attentions Constitute An Agonising Test Of That Will, And Also Threaten To Return The Body To The Dreaded 'normality' It Has Been Such Ecstasy To Escape.

The Writing You Allude To Is A Form Of Dissent, But It's Also Expressive Of The Need To Evolve Beyond What Is Turgid And Stale In Contemporary Fiction.