Men emerge pale from the little printing plant at four sharp, ghosts for an instant, blinking, until the outdoor light overcomes the look of constant indoor light clinging to them.

What would men be without women? Scarce, sir, mighty scarce. Mark Twain Women are an alien race set down among us.

Wickedness was like food: once you got started it was hard to stop; the gut expanded to take in more and more.

Inspiration arrives as a packet of material to be delivered.

Adversity in immunological doses has its uses; more than that crushes.

Writing fiction is like music. You have to keep it moving. You can have slow movements but there has to be a sense of momentum, of going someplace. You hear a snatch of Beethoven and it has a sense of momentum that is unmistakably his. That's a nice quality if you can do it in fiction.

The educational aspect of art shows has become overbearing: some of exhibits can leave you bleary from trying to read the walls. Presumably a piece of art is timeless and it can say something to us. You are taking away the right of art to talk for itself.