I never think about the actual process of writing. I suppose I have a superstition about examining it too closely.

We stay in the house so much because I am waiting for the telephone. I seem to be back in my teens, a period I thought I would never have to endure again: my life is spent hoping for things that only someone else can bring about.

People always call it luck when you've acted more sensibly than they have.

None of my own experiences ever finds its way into my work. However, the stages of my life - motherhood, middle age, etc. - often influence my subject matter.

I've always thought sleep was a wonderful invention. Not that being awake isn't nice too, of course. But when I get up in the morning, I think, boy, only fourteen more hours and I can be back to sleep again ... And I never dream, because it distracts my mind from pure sleeping.

Once your mind is caught on the right snag, there's nothing so hard about the mechanics of writing.

Bravest thing about people is how they go on loving mortal beings after finding out there's such a thing as dying.