The resistance to my work, and to my way of writing, has been there from the beginning. The first things I wrote were these short short stories collected in At the Bottom of the River, and at least three of them are one sentence long. They were printed in The New Yorker, over the objections of many of the editors in the fiction department.

The Holocaust happened in Europe, and that's important to how it is viewed. Had Europeans done such a thing in the far corners of the earth, rather than on their own doorstep, it might not be mentioned in the history books.

It was hollow, my triumph, I could feel that, but I held on to it just the same.

I would be lost without the feeling of antagonism that people have towards me. I write out of defiance.

What I don't write is as important as what I write.

For me, writing isn't a way of being public or private; it's just a way of being. The process is always full of pain, but I like that. It's a reality, and I just accept it as something not to be avoided. This is the life I have. This is the life I write about.

I read about writers who have routines. They write at certain times of the day. I can't do that. I am always writing-but in my head.