Everything was leveled, there were no extremes of joy or sorrow any more but only habit, routine, ancient family names and rites and customs, slow careful old people moving cautiously around furniture that had sat in the same positions for fifty years.

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

If I waited till I felt like writing, I'd never write at all.

It seems to me that good novels celebrate the mystery in ordinary life, and summing it all up in psychological terms strips the mystery away

My writing day has grown shorter as I've aged, although it seems to produce the same number of pages.

Sooner or later, even the sharpest pain became flattened.

It's true that writing is a solitary occupation, but you would be surprised at how much companionship a group of imaginary characters can offer once you get to know them.