Short stories demand a certain awareness of one's own intentions, a certain narrowing of the focus.

What does it cost to lose those weeks, that light, the very nights in the year preferred over all others? Can you evade the dying of the brightness? Or do you evade only its warning? Where are you left if you miss the message the blue nights bring?

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

The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it

If you are doing a piece about somebody, even if you admire them tremendously and express that in the piece, express that admiration, if they're not used to being written about, if they're civilians, [...] they're not used to seeing themselves through other people's eyes. So you will always see them from a slightly different angle than they see themselves, and they feel a little betrayed by that.

The future always looks good in the golden land, because no one remembers the past.

Writing is the act of saying "I," of imposing oneself upon other people, of saying "listen to me, see it my way, change your mind."