Between the ages of 8 and 12 it was difficult to know what my father was saying, and he moved very slowly, and then he died.

I think fiction lends itself to messiness rather than the ideal, and plays well with the ironies surrounding what happens versus what should happen.

It really matters to writers to find and treasure readers, all the more when they're on the other side of the world.

Between the ages of 8 and 12 it was difficult to know what my father was saying, and he moved very slowly, and then he died.

“One Minus One’”and “Barcelona, 1975” are more or less autobiographical.

I like it that they [disciples] feed me and pay for my clothes and protect me. And in return I will do for them what I can, but no more than that. Just as I cannot breathe the breath of another or help the heart of someone else to beat or their bones not to weaken or their flesh not to shrivel, I cannot say more than I can say. And I know how deeply this disturbs them, and it would make me smile, this earnest need for foolish anecdote or sharp simple patterns in the story of what happened to us all, except that I have forgotten how to smile.

I think you can get a sort of intensity and an edginess offering nine stories in a book. Competing versions of things.