Sadness at being caught, at the incontrovertibe knowledge that she will never forgive you.

The thing is - do we really need another writer who writes a book every eighteen months, whether the quality is wonderful or not? I mean, maybe. But I can name twenty off the top of my head who do it. Maybe what we need is a writer like me who goes very slow, as well.

Nobody warned me that when you fall in love, you really fall in love forever.

Love is the only thing - I don't want to say that "makes it bearable" - but I feel like without the possibility of love, this place would just devour us.

Used to be in the old days, only the pulp writers wrote like machines. Now everybody is expected to be literary John Henrys. So in that context someone like me is an anomaly.

...one of those very bad men that not even postmodernism can explain away.

You can't be a human without seeing.