It can be hard to write a skillfully entertaining fiction, but a great book wants to be more, and wants more from us.

We are all shaped by where we grow up, though that shaping takes different forms. I dont think theres any doubt that coming of age in Winnipeg both opened my eyes and made me hungry - if I can subvert all claims to be a real writer by mixing metaphors like that.

It is always difficult, even with the best will in the world, to look back a long way and see anything resembling the truth.

There was some sadness in how that could happen, falling out of love with something that had shaped you. Or even people who had.

In this world, where we find ourselves, we need compassion more than anything, I think, or we are all alone.

A hard truth: that courage can be without meaning or impact, need not be rewarded, or even known. The world has not been made in that way. Perhaps, however, within the self there might come a resonance, the awareness of having done something difficult, of having done . . . something.

What mortal knew the way their fate line would run?