Living up here it’s dark in the winter, maybe not Scandinavian dark, not Finland dark, but we’re on a level with Moscow and Newfoundland, so the winter nights are long.
I like it, I like the cosy blanket of night, I like leaving the house to come here and write while it’s still dark and, an hour later, the sky is only showing the faintest blue – it’s close to seven, it’s close to March and it’s dark outside.
I couldn’t live in a warm place, a summer place. I like the warmth of cold, darkness. If I could choose to be the wolf Skoll, chasing the sun, or the wolf Hati, chasing the moon, it’d be the moon every time.