International business, once allowed to stalk uncontrolled, killed the local, the small, the quirky.

Each of us is born into our own mysteries but the mystery of another might just take us in and embrace us. And then what a sense of homecoming, of belonging!

Dogs are in on our human silliness; lions are not.

I just focus on getting the first scene right, with a few lines about the overall plot, and then the book grows organically.

That my philosophy of life is, as far as possible, one of enjoyment. I'm not nihilistic.

Regular maps have few surprises: their contour lines reveal where the Andes are, and are reasonably clear. More precious, though, are the unpublished maps we make ourselves, of our city, our place, our daily world, our life; those maps of our private world we use every day; here I was happy, in that place I left my coat behind after a party, that is where I met my love; I cried there once, I was heartsore; but felt better round the corner..., things of that sort, our personal memories, that make the private tapestry of our lives.

Talking about pumpkins doesn't make them grow.