All of us are imperfect human beings living in an imperfect world.

My priority is my books, at least at this point. What I have to do is write the narrative of this time.

I can't imagine how American readers will react to a novel, but if the story is appealing it doesn't matter much if you don't catch all the detail. I'm not too familiar with the geography of nineteenth century London, for instance, but I still enjoy reading Dickens.

All right, then, I thought: here I am in the bottom of a well.

With each passing moment I'm becoming part of the past. There is no future for me, just the past steadily accumulating.

If you think about it, an unfair society is a society that makes it possible for you to exploit your abilities to the limit.

I would stare at the grains of light suspended in that silent space, struggling to see into my own heart. What did I want? And what did others want from me? But I could never find the answers. Sometimes I would reach out and try to grasp the grains of light, but my fingers touched nothing.