People's lives, in Jubilee as elsewhere, were dull, simple, amazing, unfathomable - deep caves paved with kitchen linoleum. What I wanted was every last thing, every layer of speech and thought, stroke of light on bark or walls, every smell, pothole, pain, crack, delusion, held still and held together - radiant, everlasting.
In your life there are a few places, or maybe only the one place, where something happened, and then there are all the other places.
We say of some things that they can't be forgiven, or that we will never forgive ourselves. But we do - we do it all the time.
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