In writing one draws in the rest, the forgotten parts.

I think that there are empty ecological niches in the literary landscape crying to be filled and when a book more or less fills a niche it's seized on, even when it's a far from perfect fit...

I saw literature as a fantasy, no less absorbing for all its irrelevance - a parallel life, as dreams shadow waking but never intersect it.

Ive always seen writing as a way of telling the truth. For me, writing is about truth. I have always tried to be faithful to my own experience.

Paris... is a world meant for the walker alone, for only the pace of strolling can take in all the rich (if muted) detail.

I think sincerity was my sole aesthetic and realism my experimental technique.

These rejections hurt me terribly because I felt it was my life that was being rejected.