It is easy to be selfish. It is hard to love who I am. No wonder I am surprised if you do. (p. 199) - Jeanette Winterson

In the fossil record of our existence, there is no trace of love. You cannot find it held in the earth's crust, waiting to be discovered. The long bones of our ancestors show nothing of their hearts. Their last meal is sometimes preserved in peat or in ice, but their thoughts and feelings are gone.

To avoid discovery I stay on the run. To discover things for myself I stay on the run.

Religion is somewhere between fear and sex. And God? Truly? In his own right, without our voices speaking for him? Obsessed I think, but not passionate. (p.74)