Our salvation never comes in the form we would have chosen.

Using language like jungle growth isn't the solution to telling a story.

Uninvited criticism is insult.

Sometimes, in that darkness, there is a single act of love, some selfless gesture, an aspiration, and we see that it's not been all waste, all hopeless, and we can ... well ... go on.

Nothing on earth in fiction is less interesting than characters under the influence of alcohol.

There's something about a parenthesis in fiction that puts one off, saying, "It's me, moi, jumping in now."

Plot does not simply move with time, but spreads out conceptually in metaphorical space.