I read to travel, and to learn. I read because every book is a world, and I can step into it when I open the book. I read because so many of the people I wish I could talk to are dead, some of them long dead: but when I read, they can tell me who they were and what they dreamed.
I write because I want to learn what I think about things, and I write fiction because I want to find out what happens next to the people in my head.
When I was young I read Mary Poppins by P. L. Travers and I learned that a nanny could also be a chthonic entity who danced, on her night off, with anthropomorphic personifications of the stars and constellations, and that if you told the tale well, this felt like truth. I suspect I’ve been trying for that level of assurance ever since.