Beneath my dress is a ladder of desire, that I climb tonight and each night after that.

— Zoë Brigley

Even after she was gone, he passed her place each day: something white in a high window - not a face, but the white belly of a pigeon beating its wings against the pane in the boarded-up house.

— Zoë Brigley

So many women come to me saying, “I have lost too, and this one, and this one”. So many embryos retreat to flesh: the live cell of the mother. Don’t tell me that twill happen for me, when the only sure thing is a miracle:the sperm nuzzling in its nest and the egg that opens, explodes.

— Zoë Brigley

Writing from the perspective of women survivors of violence, Moore is at his most appealing; though his writing about sex and brutality can verge on the exploitative, he sometimes reveals an unexpected sympathy with dominated women.

— Zoë Brigley