I'm a novelist, that's how I make my livelihood, and I concentrate on the novels.

What is any ocean but a multitude of drops?

A life can get knocked into a new orbit by a car crash, a lottery win or just a bleary-eyed consultant giving bad news in a calm voice.

If I want to act relaxed, it's going to take all my cunning, skill, and concentration.

How vulgar, this hankering after immortality, how vain, how false. Composers are merely scribblers of cave paintings. One writes music because winter is eternal and because, if one didn't, the wolves and blizzards would be at one's throat all the sooner.

Trees're always a relief, after people.

Probably in a parallel universe not far from here, I'm working for Nintendo.