He wished he had inhabited more of his life, used it better, filled it fuller.
Now peculiar scraps of knowledge were stuck to him like lint from all his jobs.
For me, writing something down was the only road out...I hated childhood, and spent it sitting behind a book waiting for adulthood to arrive. When I ran out of books I made up my own. At night, when I couldn't sleep, I made up stories in the dark.
I've never quite believed that one chance is all I get
It is not how much you love someone, but who you are when you are with him.
Point of view is not something I consciously decide. Almost always, when I come up with a plot I find that the point of view has automatically arrived with it, part and parcel of the story.