Caring too much for objects can destroy you. Only—if you care for a thing enough, it takes on a life of its own, doesn’t it? And isn’t the whole point of things—beautiful things—that they connect you to some larger beauty?

On the other hand, I mean, that is what writers have always been supposed to do, was to rely on their own devices and to - I mean, writing is a lonely business.

As much fun as it is to read a book, writing a book is one level deeper than that.

I hope we're all ready to leave the phenomenal world, and enter into the sublime?

Not quite what one expected, but once it happened one realized it couldn't be any other way.

Character, to me, is the life's blood of fiction

In short: I felt my existence was tainted, in some subtle but essential way.