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Whenever we warm our hands by the fire, we allow the energy radiated by the fire to quicken up the movements of the atoms of which the hands are composed. When we cool any substance, we check those movements.

I know exactly what I'm doing on the ice, and I'm in my element.

There's nothing pretty about ice. Ice grows nothing. But we've got this in our minds that we've got to make everything cold.

You're a song written by the hands of God.

I'm going to hit you as hard as I can regardless of whether you touch my gloves or not.

Happiness, for you we walk on a knife edge. To the eyes you are a flickering light, to the feet, thin ice that cracks; and so may no one touch you who loves you.

That feeling when you're so cold you'd give anything to be warm - I've had it before, literally huddled around a candle flame on an ice sheet.

I can walk on my hands.

You touch me and I'll kick you in the rear.

I am not a snowflake. I am not a sweet, infantilising symbol of fragility and life. I am a strong, fierce, flawed adult woman. I plan to remain that way, in life and in death.