The cleaning is something I use as a reward if I get some work done. I go into a very happy state of mind when I'm vacuuming.

I don't know whether I am different from other people. Perhaps I am. Perhaps no one has a personality, and people are inventing themselves in the context in which they find themselves.

I had forgotten that time wasn't fixed like concrete but in fact was fluid as sand, or water. I had forgotten that even misery can end.

Each time I undertake to reread Virginia Woolf, I am somewhat baffled by the signature breathlessness and relentlessly "poetic" tone, the shimmering impressionism, so very different from the vivid, precise, magisterial (and often very funny) prose of her contemporary James Joyce.

I feel a terrible loss when I (eventually must) complete a work of fiction.

Why is humanism not the preeminent belief of humankind?

Tragedy is the highest form of art.