The 20th century saw far greater catastrophes than September 11th, as bad as it was, and they didn't render literature or art or music irrelevant. In fact, I think that literature and art help us to understand - sometimes they provide narratives and metaphors for understanding history, for understanding recent catastrophes.

Mine is not an autonomous imagination.

Great minds sink alike, right?

I realized that I might not ever make it as a writer, that it might be because I wasn't good enough, or that it might be because the odds were just too long.

I love to imagine inside the head of a woman.

He insisted on a single trade secret: that you had to survive, find some quiet, and work hard every day.

There is a shabby nobility in failing all by yourself.