I don't see myself as some kind of lone figure standing out there and doing my work in solitary splendour, but as part of the human condition and part of the continuum of writers.

Everyone who tells a story tells it differently, just to remind us that everybody sees it differently. Some people say there are true things to be found, some people say all kinds of things can be proved. I don't believe them. The only thing for certain is how complicated it all is, like string full of knots. It's all there but hard to find the beginning and impossible to fathom the end. The best you can do is admire the cat's cradle, and maybe knot it up a bit more.

I've never been tempted by God but I like his trappings.

This is not a love story, but love is in it. That is, love is just outside it, looking for a way to break in.

It's hard to remember that this day will never come again. That the time is now and the place is here and that there are no second chances at a single moment.

I don't know how to answer. I know what I think, but words in the head are like voices underwater. They are distorted.

There are many forms of love and affection, some people can spend their whole lives together without knowing each other's names. Naming is a difficult and time-consuming process; it concerns essences, and it means power. But on the wild nights who can call you home? Only the one who knows your name.