I sometimes imagine a great writer as a sort of God-surrogate: the writer is doing his or her human-best to emulate what God might think of is, if God was inclined to observe some human beings and present their activities in the form of a narrative.

I'm always nice when I do drugs. But, you know, I'm nicer on the drug called "writing."

Why were we put here, so inclined to love, when end of our story = death? That harsh. That cruel. Do not like.

When I'm explaining something to you, if I'm being long-winded, and twisty in a non-productive way, I could make you feel vaguely insulted. And you'd have a right to be.

I'm always aware of writing around things I can't do, and I've come to think that that's actually what 'style' is - an avoidance of your deficiencies.

It was that impossible thing: happiness that does not wilt to reveal the thin shoots of some new desire rising from within it.

I have nothing. My model is I have nothing figured out, and I'm starting with some little nugget and hoping that it will talk back to me enough to let it grow.