Everybody who undergoes a death and finds themselves grieving is obsessed with — or maybe overly focused on — the idea that they can’t display self-pity, they have to be strong. Actually there are a lot of reasons why you are going to feel sorry for yourself, but that’s your first concern.

That no one dies of migraine seems, to someone deep into an attack, an ambiguous blessing.

One thing in my defense, not that it matters: I know something Carter never knew, or Helene, or maybe you. I know what "nothing" means, and keep on playing.

I don't have a very clear idea of who the characters are until they start talking.

I can't imagine writing if I didn't have a reader. Any more than an actor can imagine acting without an audience.

My first notebook was a Big Five tablet, given to me [at age five] by my mother with the sensible suggestion that I stop whining and learn to amuse myself by writing down my thoughts.

I came into adult life equipped with an essentially romantic ethic.