I thought of myself as a writer for years before I got around to writing anything.

When I'm writing, I like to seal everything off and face the wall, not to look outside the window. The only way out is through the sentences.

Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go.

And so the ordinary unendurable torments we all experienced were indeed exceptional in the way they were absorbed in each heart.

Time seems to me a drift, a shifting of sand. And my mind is shifting with it. I am wearing away.

Stories distribute the suffering so that it can be borne.

Uncharged with invisible meaning, the visible is nothing, mere clay; and without visible circumstance, a territory, to connect to, our spirit is shapeless, nameless, and undefined.