Art, of course, is a way of thinking, a way of mining reality.

When people are serving, life is no longer meaningless.

As a rule of thumb I say, if Socrates, Jesus and Tolstoy wouldn't do it, don't.

Talking, talking. Spinning a web of words, pale walls of dreams, between myself and all I see.

One must be just a little crazy to write a great novel. One must be capable of allowing the darkest, most ancient and shrewd parts of one’s being to take over the work from time to time.

In university courses we do exercises. Term papers, quizzes, final examinations are not meant for publication. We move through a course on Dostoevsky or Poe as we move through a mildly good cocktail party, picking up the good bits of food or conversation, bearing with the rest, going home when it comes to seem the reasonable thing to do. Art, at those moments when it feels most like art -- when we feel most alive, most alert, most triumphant -- is less like a cocktail party than a tank full of sharks.

Writing a novel is like heading out over the open sea in a small boat. It helps, if you have a plan and a course laid out.