I've always been fascinated by physics and cosmology. It gets more and more scary the older you get.

The world is not real for me until it has been pushed through the mesh of language.

Dostoevsky is such a bad writer it is hard to take him seriously as a novelist, though he is a wonderful philosopher.

Given the world that he created, it would be an impiety against God to believe in him.

Happiness was different in childhood. It was so much then a matter simply of accumulation, of taking things - new experiences, new emotions - and applying them like so many polished tiles to what would someday be the marvellously finished pavilion of the self.

It's great people still care about books, and it's great you can still fashion a life from literature.

A plot begins when somebody has something to hide.