There is no hatred in my love for you. Only a sadness I feel all the more strongly for my inability to explain or describe it.

If your fidelity to perfectionism is too high, you never do anything.

Fiction is one of the few experiences where loneliness can be both confronted and relieved.

There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says 'Morning, boys. How's the water?' And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes 'What the hell is water?'

The reason ... our pervasive cultural irony is at once so powerful and so unsatisfying is that an ironist is impossible to pin down.

Under fun's new administration, writing fiction becomes a way to go deep inside yourself and illuminate precisely the stuff you don't want to see or let anyone else see, and this stuff usually turns out (paradoxically) to be precisely the stuff all writers and readers share and respond to, feel.

Why not? Why not?Why not not, then, if the best reasoning you can contrive is why not?