The hardest novel to write was Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant.

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

I wonder how many times we dream that kind of dream-something strange and illogical-and fail to realize God is trying to tell us something.

I suspect that marriage is like parenthood: every last one of us is an amateur at it.

It is not how much you love someone, but who you are when you are with him.

I have spent so long erecting partitions around the part of me that writes - learning how to close the door on it when ordinary lfe intervenes, how to close the door on ordinary life when it's time to start writing again - that I'm not sure I could fit the two parts of me back together now.

I just want to be told a story, and I want to believe I'm living that story, and I don't give a thought to influences or method or any other writerly concerns