From about the age of 15 or 16 I'd had the notion that I wanted to write fiction, and I'd done enough in college to satisfy myself that I had a knack for it - I wouldn't call it "talent" - though I wondered if I'd ever have the guts to actually commit to it.

Eruptions of talent continue to happen in Haiti, in spite of everything.

There was no such thing as perfection in this world, only moments of such extreme transparency that you forgot yourself, a holy mercy if there ever was one.

A person deprived of beauty and pleasure puts me in mind of the Haitian notion of a zombie - a person disconnected from his or her soul, a person who works for others' profit but never his own, a person who mindlessly does the bidding of the boss and exists in an emotional and mental limbo.

It is sort of weird being honored for the worst day of your life.

I think if you spend much time dwelling on influence you can get self-conscious about every line you write. That's a great way to freeze up.

It's amazing what happens when you stick yourself in a place and let things take their more or less natural course.