And yet it takes only the smallest pleasure or pain to teach us time’s malleability.

There's nothing wrong with being a genius who can fascinate the young. Rather, there's something wrong with the young who can't be fascinated by a genius.

The writer has little control over personal temperament, none over historical moment, and is only partly in charge of his or her own aesthetic.

Women were brought up to believe that men were the answer. They weren't. They weren't even one of the questions.

Does character develop over time? In novels, of course it does: otherwise there wouldn't be much of a story. But in life? I sometimes wonder. Our attitudes and opinions change, we develop new habits and eccentricities; but that's something different, more like decoration. Perhaps character resembles intelligence, except that character peaks a little later: between twenty and thirty, say. And after that, we're just stuck with what we've got. We're on our own. If so, that would explain a lot of lives, wouldn't it? And also - if this isn't too grand a word - our tragedy.

Often the grind of book promotion wearies you of your own book - though at the same time this frees you from its clutches.

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