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

We think we're living in the present, but we're really living in the past.

He knows that after him everything will continue on much as before, except that there will be a minuscule absence, a barely detective gap in the so-called grand scheme, one unit fewer now. Or not even that, not even an empty space where he once was, for all will rush immediately to fill that vacuum. Pft. Gone. Recollections of him will remain in the minds of others for a while, but presently those others too will die and his few relics with them. And then all will be dark.

All a work of art can do is present the surface. I can't know the insides of people. I know very little about the inside of myself.

For memory, we use our imagination. We take a few strands of real time and carry them with us, then like an oyster we create a pearl around them.

Ian McEwan is a very good writer; the first half of Atonement alone would ensure him a lasting place in English letters.

I dont know if there is a personal identity. We all imagine that we are absolute individuals. But when we begin to look for where this individuality resides, its very difficult to find.