He would work through the night and sleep until lunch. There wasn't really much else to do. Make something, and die.

I was the basest of readers. All I wanted was my own world, and myself in it, given back to me in artful shapes and accessible form.

I'm sorry to say that far worse things have happened and the literature of the Holocaust is a witness to the capacity of the novel as a form.

Oblivion seemed the only reasonable option.

It wasn't only wickedness and scheming that made people unhappy, it was confusion and misunderstanding; above all, it was the failure to grasp the simple truth that other people are as real as you.

Writers are said to have superstitions and little rituals. Readers have them too.

When they kissed she immediately felt his tongue, tensed and strong, pushing past her teeth, like some bully shouldering his way into a room. Entering her.