The great menace to the life of an industry is industrial self-complacency.

Impossible not to imagine the dead observing us. Our love for them a soft, shimmering gossamar that trails behind us.

The appeal of writing is primarily the investigation of mystery.

Critics sometimes appear to be addressing themselves to works other than those I remember writing.

Ideas brush past fleeting and insubstantial as moths. But I let them go, I don't want them. What I want is a voice.

These are the moments for which we live.

Her wish to die was as pervasive as a dial tone: you lift the receiver, it's always there.