Novels are more difficult simply because they are longer and require more juggling, but short stories are closer to perfection, if you can get the language right.

Long ago, long ago. The simple things come back to us. They rest for a moment by our ribcages then suddenly reach in and twist our hearts a notch backward.

One look at each other and it was immediately understood that they both needed a clean slate,,, The obliteration of memory.

Part of the beauty of fiction is that we come alive in a body that we don't own.

I know already that I will return to this day whenever I want to. I can bid it alive. Preserve it. There is a still point where the present, the now, winds around itself, and nothing is tangled. The river is not where it begins or ends, but right in the middle point, anchored by what has happened and what is to arrive.

Memory has a heavy backspin, yet it’s still impossible to land exactly where we took off.

Sometimes thinking back on things is a mistake arising out of pride, but I guess you live inside a moment for years, move with it and feel it grow, and it sends out roots until it touches everything in sight.