We inherit plots. There are only two or three in the world, five or six at most. We ride them like treadmills.

Herschel Grynszpan's life was enigmatic, elusive and tragic. The traces he left on the historical record are just sufficient to tantalize and baffle historians. Harlan Greene has woven from these threads a riveting novel, erotic, haunting, and profoundly moving.

Her days come and go like birds, her dreams like days.

I am extremely interested in how people negotiate catastrophe, not because I'm morbidly interested in it but because I'm interested in the secret of resilience; that's what I'm always exploring in the stories and the novels.

I've found you can go on writing in the dark, and that the act of writing itself, that mysterious, dangerous, intoxicating, absorbing, nourishing magician's trick, that act of creation is its own light.

We inherit plots. There are only two or three in the world, five or six at most. We ride them like treadmills.

It often seems to me that the biggest single issue for a writer is how to stay buoyant enough to go on writing. How not to drown.