The bowed head, the buried face. She is silent, she will never speak, never forgive, never reach a hand, never leave this frozen present tense. All waits, suspended. Suspended the autumn trees, the autumn sky, anonymous people. A blackbird, poor fool, sings out of season from the willows by the lake. A flight of pigeons over the houses; fragments of freedom, hazard, an anagram made flesh. And somewhere the stinging smell of burning leaves.

Most marriages recognize this paradox: Passion destroys passion; we want what puts an end to wanting what we want.

How can one build a better self unless on the ruins of the old?

There are many reasons why novelists write, but they all have one thing in common - a need to create an alternative world.

You come to the United States not knowing what to expect. Then all your worst prejudices are confirmed.

People who teach you cram old ideas, old views, old ways, into you. Like covering plants with layer after layer of old earth; it's no wonder the poor things so rarely come up fresh and green.

Time is not a road - it is a room.