You're wrong. The mind is not like raindrops. It does not fall from the skies, it does not lose itself among other things. If you believe in me at all, then believe this: I promise you I will find it. Everything depends on this." "I believe you," she whispers after a moment. "Please find my mind.

You like to write. It's the single most important quality for someone who wants to be a writer. But not in itself enough.

I don't really know if it's the right thing to do, making new life. Kids grow up, generations take their place. What does it all come to? More hills bulldozed and more ocean fronts filled in? Faster cars and more cats run over? Who needs it?

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

No matter what they wish for, no matter how far they go, people can never be anything but themselves. That's all.

People have their own reasons for dying. It might look simple, but it never is. It's just like a rock. What's above ground is only a small part of it. But if you start pulling, it keeps coming and coming. The human mind dwells deep in darkness. Only the person himself knows the real reason, and maybe not even then.

Give yourself five minutes to consider how you can turn a miserable situation to your benefit and that light bulb is going to click on.