Nothing I read about grief seemed to exactly express the craziness of it; which was the interesting aspect of it to me - how really tenuous our sanity is.

In the early years, you fight because you don't understand each other. In the later years, you fight because you do.

Writers are only rarely likable.

What makes Iago evil? Some people ask. I never ask.

Let me tell you one thing about why writers write: had I known the answer to any of these questions I would never have needed to write a novel.

We tell ourselves stories in order to live. We live entirely by the impression of a narrative line upon disparate images, the shifting phantasmagoria, which is our actual experience.

I don't know what I think until I write it down.