Everyone, deep in their hearts, is waiting for the end of the world to come.

Sometimes when I think of life, I feel like a piece of driftwood washed up on shore.

The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts.

And as we live our lives we discover - drawing toward us the thin threads attached to each - what has been lost. I closed my eyes and tried to bring to mind as many beautiful lost things as I could. Drawing them closer, holding on to them.

You are entering a phase of your life in which many different things will occur...bad things that seem good at first and good things that seem bad at first.

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

As long as I kept my body moving I could forget about the emptiness inside.