What was lost was lost. There was no retrieving it, however you schemed, no returning to how things were, no going back.

And her sleep was too long and deep for that:so deep that she left her normal reality behind.

I always feel like I'm struggling to become someone else. Like I'm trying to find a new place, grab hold of a new life, a new personality. I guess it's part of growing up; it's also an attempt to reinvent myself.

Whatever can't be expressed might as well not exist.

The little things are important, Mr. Wind-Up Bird.

Writing a long novel is like survival training. Physical strength is as necessary as artistic sensitivity.

When microorganisms die, they make oil; when huge timbers fall, they make coal. But everything here was pure, unadulterated rubbish that didn't make anything. Where does a busted videodeck get you?