The world spins. We stumble on. It is enough.

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

Sometimes, in life, nothing happens. But, sometimes, nothing happens beautifully.

The contemporary American novelist benefits in a way from being ignored. It makes you angrier and makes you want to go into all of those places where you shouldnt.

I don't really know what an adverb is. A dangling participle? That sounds really rude. I don't know what character is, really. Plot seems vaguely juvenile to me. It's all about language, it's all about how you apply it to the page.

...and it strikes her, as she walks, that borders, like hatred, are exaggerated precisely because otherwise they would cease to exist altogether.

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