I think whenever we think of our hometowns, we tend to think of very specific people: with whom you rode on the school bus, who was your next door neighbor you were playing with, who your girlfriend was. It's always something very specific.

The ideal art, the noblest of art: working with the complexities of life, refusing to simplify, to "overcome" doubt.

I'm sure all that you've heard is just the usual gossip, invented to injure feelings rather than illuminate truth.

Before you can write a novel you have to have a number of ideas that come together. One idea is not enough.

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

I don't feel I write fast. I write in longhand and do so much revision. On the page, it's so old-fashioned. I could write a whole novel on scrap paper, scribbles and things. I keep looking at it and something develops. For me, using a word processor would mean staring at a screen for too many hours.

You wake up one morning, those years are gone. There's a comfort in this fact perhaps. I want to think that there must be comfort in all facts we can't alter.