Eventually you stop paying attention to your own feelings when there's nothing to be done about them.

People are considered as areas that resist light, mistakes in the air, collision sweet spots. At the time of this writing, the whole world is a crime scene: People eat space with their bodies; they are rain decayers; the wind is slaughtered when they move. A retaliation is probably coming. Should a person cease to move, she would cease to kill the sky, and the world might begin to recover.

I like big doses of grief when I read: Richard Yates, Flannery O'Connor, Kenzabaro Oe, Thomas Bernhard.

Suspense left my life a long time ago, now it has returned. I do not care for it.

Fiction is too complicated and too elusive to break down into a set of tricks.

To refrain from storytelling is perhaps one of the highest forms of respect we can pay. Those people, with no stories to circle them, can die without being misunderstood.

Fiction becomes a place where I face certain fears such as losing language or losing my children.