People give pain, are callous and insensitive, empty and cruel...but place heals the hurt, soothes the outrage, fills the terrible vacuum that these human beings make.
A good snapshot stops a moment from running away.
If you haven't surprised yourself, you haven't written.
For the night was not impartial. No, the night loved some more than others, served some more than others.
What we know about writing the novel is the novel.
Fiction shows us the past as well as the present moment in mortal light; it is an art served by the indelibility of our memory, and one empowered by a sharp and prophetic awareness of what is ephemeral. It is by the ephemeral that our feeling is so strongly aroused for what endures.