Reality was utterly coolheaded and utterly lonely.

Good style happens in one of two ways: the writer either has an inborn talent or is willing to work herself to death to get it.

I’m me, and at the same time not me. That’s what it felt like. A very still, quiet feeling.

The problem was, I think, that the places I fit in were always falling behind the rimes.

Your heart is like a great river after a long spell of rain, spilling over its banks. All signposts that once stood on the ground are gone, inundated and carried away by that rush of water. And still the rain beats down on the surface of the river. Every time you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: That’s it. That’s my heart.

It's the same with menus and men and just about anything else: we think we're choosing things for ourselves, but in fact we may not be choosing anything. It could be that everthing's being decided in advance and we pretend we're making choices. Free will may be an illusion. I often think that.

In my younger days, I was trying to write sophisticated prose and fantastic stories.