When Hokusai changed his name for the umpteenth time and began his work on the thirty-sixth view of Fuji, every line and every lick of paint worked in unison to orchestrate the mountainous view of Japan's prime artist, otherwise known as Sori.

When Hokusai's house burnt to a scree, his works reduced to an ashen pile, the great man (known also as Shinsei) did not hesitate at the grand old age of seventy nine (his name by now being Manji) to pick up his brushes and draw a faint but definite wave in spate, and change his nom to Hachemon, his prime aim to make every dot and every streak enunciate, as if they could speak his last tag, Litsu through each design, each floating world, until his rake of names ran out, and Hokusai nameless, and at only ninety, kicked up his heels and became The Late . . .

On Watching Ray Mears's Extreme Survival Guide
By Roisin Tierney

I thought of my friend who sees visions of her dead father at night at the end of her bed, and who says she wants to write about 'the unspeakable'.

When the man who had survived at sea in an inflatable lifeboat for thirty-eight days, by de-salting seawater and building a compass from pencils and learning to like eating raw fish, especially the eyes which are full of a delectable liquid, apparently, said: 'You cannot control your destiny, but you can learn useful skills which may greatly increase your chances of survival' and 'If you try something and it fails, try again' my heart secretly applauded his heartfelt honesty and I picked up my pen and found true north, and formed an intention as solid as any: to write what can be said, do what can be done.