There are two kinds of sculptures. There's the kind that subtracts: Michelangelo starts with a block of marble and chips away. And then there is the kind that adds, building with clay, piling it on. The way I write novels is to keep piling on and piling on and piling on.

Everything else happened - why not the things that could have?

We live in a world made up more of story than stuff. We are creatures of memory more than reminders, of love more than likes.

My greatest fear is feeling like a professional novelist. Somebody who creates characters, who sits down and has pieces of paper taped to the wall - what's going to happen in this scene, or this act. What I like is for it to be a much more scary, sloppy reflection of who I am.

I would have done anything for him. Maybe that was my sickness.

My boots were so heavy that I was glad there was a column beneath us. How could such a lonely person have been living so close to me my whole life? If I had known, I would have gone up to keep him company.

Time was passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on. I hope you never have to think about anything as much as I think about you.