And no, it wasn't shame I now felt, or guilt, but something rarer in my life and stronger than both: remorse. A feeling which is more complicated, curdled, and primeval. Whose chief characteristic is that nothing can be done about it: too much time has passed, too much damage has been done, for amends to be made.

If the writer were more like a reader, he’d be a reader, not a writer. It’s as uncomplicated as that.

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

Though why should we expect age to mellow us? If it isn't life's business to reward merit, why should it be life's business to give us warm comfortable feelings towards its end? What possible evolutionary purpose could nostalgia serve?

But that’s one advantage of fiction, you can speed up time.

Alice Munro can move characters through time in a way that no other writer can.

Yes, of course we were pretentious -- what else is youth for?