You get towards the end of life - no, not life itself, but of something else: the end of any likelihood of change in that life. You are allowed a long moment of pause, time enough to ask the question: what else have I done wrong?

Later on in life, you expect a bit of rest, don't you? You think you deserve it. I did, anyway. But then you begin to understand that the reward of merit is not life's business.

Well, they each seem to do one thing well enough, but fail to realize that literature depends on doing several things well at the same time.

When you are writing fiction your task is to reflect the fullest complications of the world

If you’re that clever you can argue yourself into anything.

But then you begin to understand that the reward of merit is not life’s business.

Novels tell us the most truth about life: what it is, how we live it, what it might be for, how we enjoy and value it, and how we lose it.