Poetry, I thought then, and still do, is a matter of space on the page interrupted by a few well-chosen words, to give them importance. Prose is a less grand affair which has to stretch to the edges of the… — Fay Weldon Copy Share Image
Nowadays most people wear black most of the time anyway: go to a literary party and one would imagine everyone there was in perpetual… — Fay Weldon Copy Share Image
My experience of men in cars has always been that if you don't want them to do something, they will. It is when they… — Fay Weldon Copy Share Image
Letters crossing in the post, unfamiliar tunes heard three times in one day, the way that blows of fate descend upon the same bowed… — Fay Weldon Copy Share Image
One sort of believes in recycling. But one believes in it as a kind of palliative to the gods. — Fay Weldon Copy Share Image
“Truly, books are wonderful things; to sit alone in a room and laugh and cry, because you are reading, and still be safe when… — Fay Weldon Copy Share Image
“Not satisfied with what he's got? Is that it? That's husbands all over. Ungrateful pigs. You do everything for them, you bring up their… — Fay Weldon Copy Share Image
The prophets of doom, in my experience, are generally ignored and usually right. — Fay Weldon Copy Share Image
“There is nothing, she would think, more delicious that the icing of bought chocolate cake, eaten in the silence and privacy of the night.” — Fay Weldon Copy Share Image
“A brave little woman,’ said the vicar. ‘So many of our women are now left alone.’ And so they were. Those who in peacetime… — Fay Weldon Copy Share Image
How has anyone ever understood anyone, except through love, which is wordless? — Fay Weldon Copy Share Image
