To be stupid, and selfish, and to have good health are the three requirements for happiness.

There is accumulation. There is responsibility. And beyond this there is great unrest.

Mystification is simple; clarity is the hardest thing of all.

Why does the writing make us chase the writer? Why can't we leave well enough alone? Why aren't the books enough?

I'm interested in such things as the difference between how we perceive the world and what the world turns out to be. The difference is between the stories we tell others and the stories we tell ourselves. There is a wonderful Russian saying, which I use as the epigraph of one of my novels, which goes, He lies like an eyewitness. Which is very sly, clever and true.

Did you know that there is no exact rhyme in the Russian language for the word 'pravda'? Ponder and weigh this insufficiency in your mind. Doesn't that just echo down the canyons of your soul?

Perhaps the world progresses not by maturing, but by being in a permanent state of adolescence, of thrilled discovery.