O Danúbio, pensei, era o Danúbio mas não era azul, era amarelo, a cidade toda era amarela, os telhados, o asfalto, os parques, engraçado isso, uma cidade amarela, eu pensava que Budapeste fosse cinzenta, mas Budapeste era amarela.

Some people thought I was using my popularity as a singer to sell my first novel. For others, it was almost a sacrilege: a practitioner of a minor art daring to enter the field of high art.

Had I not become entangled with music, I would have become an author much earlier.

The great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever trees.

It was a great result in Hungary,

Grey is… such a mean word. I don’t remember a time when I thought grey was anything but… pain. No matter how many clothes I’ve designed, I’ve always avoided that one colour. It’s a colour that is undecided. A colour that is full of heartache, confusion and misunderstanding. Yet it seems… Everyone else chose to be grey. Left all other colours. Left black and it’s darkness. Left white and it’s lightness. And just, hold on to all shades of grey. To me… Grey is not a colour no a feeling. Grey is… you and me.