There is a world inside the world.

For me, wellbehaved books with neat plots and worked-out endings seem somewhat quaint in the face of the largely incoherent reality of modern life; and then again fiction, at least as I write it and think of it, is a kind of religious meditation in which language is the final enlightenment, and it is language, in its beauty, its ambiguity and its shifting textures, that drives my work.

The family is the cradle of the world's misinformation.

People think about who they are in the stillest hour of the night.

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?

The world is full of abandoned meanings. In the commonplace I find unexpected themes and intensities.

What good is knowledge if it just floats in the air? It goes from computer to computer. It changes and grows every second of every day. But nobody actually knows anything.