There is a set of balances and rhythms to a novel that we can't experience in real life. So I think there is a sense in which fiction can rescue history from confusion.

I'm not reclusive at all. Just private.

The smoke alarm went off in the hallway upstairs, either to let us know the battery had just died or because the house was on fire.

I think that the massive, overarching, interconnected systems of technology tend to make us a little insecure, somewhat pliable, and susceptible to half-beliefs.

Everything I've stated may prove to be total poppycock.... Perhaps time will tell. Perhaps time will do nothing of the kind.

I understand there are some men who are only half here. Let's not say men. Let's say people. People who are more or less obscure at times.

There's always a period of curious fear between the first sweet-smelling breeze and the time when the rain comes cracking down.