Maybe she thought the garbage and rocks in your head were interesting. But finally, garbage is garbage and rocks are rocks.

My imagination is a kind of animal. So what I do is keep it alive.

Not that we were incompatible: we just had nothing to talk about.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm a novelist right now. There is no definite career reason why I became a writer. Something happened, and I became a writer. And now I'm a successful writer.

In the world we live in, what we know and what we don't know are like Siamese twins, inseparable, existing in a state of confusion.

I think of rivers, of tides. Forests and water gushing out. Rain and lightning. Rocks and shadows. All of these are in me.

It made her think of Laika, the dog. The man-made satellite streaking soundlessly across the blackness of outer space. The dark, lustrous eyes of the dog gazing out the tiny window. In the infinite loneliness of space, what could the dog possibly be looking at?