So many dreams, so many disappointments, so many promises. And in the end, they all just vanish.

There were plenty of women around who dressed smartly, and plenty more who dressed to impress, but this girl was different. Totally different. She wore her clothing with such utter naturalness and grace that she could have been a bird that had wrapped itself in a special wind as it made ready to fly off to another world. He had never seen a woman who wore her clothes with such apparent joy. And the clothes themselves looked as if, in being draped on her body, they had won new life for themselves.

Once she was out of the car and gone, my world was suddenly hollow and meaningless.

If we reverse the outer shell and the essence--in other words, consider the outer shell the essence and the essence only the shell--our lives might be a whole lot easier to understand.

Whether in music or in fiction, the most basic thing is rhythm. Your style needs to have good, natural, steady rhythm, or people won't keep reading your work.

I think history is collective memories. In writing, I'm using my own memory, and I'm using my collective memory.

In the world we live in, what we know and what we don't know are like Siamese twins, inseparable, existing in a state of confusion.