I've always seen myself in sentences. I begin to recognize myself, word by word, as I work through a sentence.

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.

Fame requires every kind of excess. I mean true fame, a devouring neon, not the sombre renown of waning statesmen or chinless kings.

It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.

Ecology is boring for the same reason that destruction is fun.

Off-camera lives are unverifiable.

The less there was to see, the harder he looked, the more he saw. (Point Omega)