I've always felt that my subject was living in dangerous times.

I don't want to do the type of writing where I recite biography, parentage and education. I want to rise up from the words on the page and do something, hurt someone.

I don’t want your candor. I want your soul in a silver thimble.

I didn’t do anything. I don’t have an explanation, I don’t know why I wanted to write. I did some short stories at that time, but very infrequently. I quit my job just to quit. I didn’t quit my job to write fiction. I just didn’t want to work anymore

The modern meaning of life's end-when does it end? How does it end? How should it end? What is the value of life? How do we measure it?

People hurried past, the others of the street, endless anonymous, twenty-one lives per second, race-walking in their faces and pigments, sprays of fleetest being.

War is the form nostalgia takes when men are hard-pressed to say something good about their country.