One of the things that novels have tended not to concentrate on over the centuries is the fact that people read books.

It wasn't for children, seventh grade. You could read the stress of even entering the building in the postures of the teachers, the security guards. Nobody could relax in such a racial and hormonal disaster area.

Apparently Brooklyn needn't always push itself to be something else, something conscious and anxious, something pointed toward Manhattan.... Brooklyn might sometimes also be pleased, as here on Flatbush, to be its grubby, enduring self.

I prefer old books and find them more relevant. I dislike new books. It's like drinking wine that's not ready.

As much as I care about historical context - I'm very eager to read a really great historical account.

The book is openly a kind of spiritual autobiography, but the trick is that on any other level it's a kind of insane collage of fragments of memory.

I met someone who lives in an elevator.