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

But if you never did anything you couldn't undo you'd end up doing nothing at all.

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 write because I want more than one life; I insist on a wider selection. It's greed, plain and simple.

Not until the final draft do I force myself to remember that I'm going to have to think about how it will affect other people.

Now peculiar scraps of knowledge were stuck to him like lint from all his jobs.

People always talked about a mother's uncanny ability to read her children, but that was nothing compared to how children could read their mothers.