They passed out of the shade beneath the eaves and flew into sunglare and silence and it was an action she only partly saw, elusive and mutely beautiful, the birds so sunstruck they were consumed by light, disembodied, turned into something sheer and fleet and scatter-bright.

I see contemporary violence as a kind of sardonic response to the promise of consumer fulfilment in America.

Doesn't seem quite real. It's not meaningful. I can't quite imagine myself being 73. That's the age my father was! [Laughter.] How can I be his age? It's weird.

What terrorists gain, novelists lose.

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

Dying was just an extended version of Ash Wednesday.

Look past the violence. There is a wonderful brimming spirit of innocence and fun.