In this century the writer has carried on a conversation with madness. We might almost say of the twentieth-century writer that he aspires to madness. Some have made it, of course, and they hold special places in our regard. To a writer, madness is a final distillation of self, a final editing down. It's the drowning out of false voices.

Mirrors and images. Or sex and love. These are two separate systems that we miserably try to link.

Writing is a concentrated form of thinking.

I've never made an outline for any novel that I've written. Never.

She became confused when she stepped onto an escalator that wasn't working.

We seem to believe it is possible to ward off death by following rules of good grooming.

Past, present and future are not amenities of language. Time unfolds into the seamsof being. It passes through you, making and shaping.