I realize full well how hard it must be to go on living alone in a place from which someone has left you, but there is nothing so cruel in this world as the desolation of having nothing to hope for.

For a long time, she held a special place in my heart. I kept this special place just for her, like a "Reserved" sign on a quiet corner table in a restaurant. Despite the fact that I was sure I'd never see her again.

But if you knew you might not be able to see it again tomorrow, everything would suddenly become special and precious, wouldn’t it?

I have no idea! I have been writing for 35 years and from the beginning up to now the situation's almost the same. I'm kind of an ugly duckling. Always the duckling, never the swan.

The ones with no imagination are always the quickest to justify themselves.

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

Become like a sheet of blotting paper and soak it all in. Later on you can figure out what to keep and what to unload.