It's one of the strangest attributes of this profession that when we writers get exhausted writing one thing, we relax by writing another.

Its hard to die. Harder to live

There is a certain solipsism to serious illness which claims all of one's attention as certainly as an astronomical black hole seizes anything unlucky enough to fall within its critical radius.

The past is dead and buried. But I know now that buried things have a way of rising to the surface when one least expects them to.

We are not the only avatars of humanity. Once our computing machines achieved self-consciousness, they became part of this design.

Speaking as a novelist myself, I know that members of our profession live in our imaginations as much or more as we inhabit what people call 'the real world.

If everyone could understand the working of a psychopath's mind, we undoubtedly would be closer to insanity ourselves.