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

I have always argued, in a good novel, interesting things happen to interesting people.

We are the total of our longings.

As many have noted, the peril for authors is that our work space is too easily our play space.

Lazy poets try to elicit a reader's response with words designed to tug at the heart.

The heart has its own laws... and the truth is... the truth is that you are the law of mine.

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