The snow in the mountains was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.

But it's for every writer to decide his own pace, and the pace varies with the writer and the work

It happened in New York, April 10th, nineteen years ago. Even my hand balks at the date. I had to push to write it down, just to keep the pen moving on the paper. It used to be a perfectly ordinary day, but now it sticks up on the calendar like a rusty nail.

I suppose the shock of recognition is one of the nastiest shocks of all.

A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don’t get to choose our own hearts. We can’t make ourselves want what’s good for us or what’s good for other people. We don’t get to choose the people we are.

You are - all your experience just kind of accumulates, and the novel takes a richness of its own simply because it has the weight of all those years that one's put into it.

I'd rather write one good book than ten mediocre ones.