Certain kinds of knowledge rob people of their sleep.

I’ve built a wall around me, never letting anybody inside and trying not to venture outside myself

My priority is my books, at least at this point. What I have to do is write the narrative of this time.

I happen to like the strange ones. People who look normal and leads normal lives - they're the ones you have to watch out for.

I’m free, I think. I shut my eyes and think hard and deep about how free I am, but I can’t really understand what it means. All I know is I’m totally alone. All alone in an unfamiliar place, like some solitary explorer who’s lost his compass and his map. Is this what it means to be free? I don’t know, and I give up thinking about it.

According to Chekhov," Tamaru said, rising from his chair, "once a gun appears in a story, it has to be fired." "Meaning what?" "Meaning, don't bring unnecessary props into a story. If a pistol appears, it has to be fired at some point. Chekhov liked to write stories that did away with all useless ornamentation.

Some things, you know, if you say them, it makes them not true?