I do not take any pleasure whatsoever in being a famous person.

My father read 'The New York Times,' my mother did secretarial work, we had a dog, we had a garden, I had a brother.

And off in the far distance, the gold on the wings of the angel atop the bell tower of San Marco flashed in the sun, bathing the entire city in its glistening benediction.

And I don't want to live anywhere where I am famous. It makes me very, very uncomfortable, because it conveys an advantage over people, and I don't like that.

I was at La Fenice opera house back in 1991 with friends, and we started talking about a conductor whom none of us liked. Somehow there was an escalation, and we started talking about how to kill him, where to kill him. This struck me as a good idea for a book.

This is a fallen world. People lie, the truth gets distorted, and that's the way it is. What's for dinner ?

I never know what's going to happen in a novel. I don't have a plan or an outline.