I think about death a lot, I really do, because I can't believe I won't exist. It's the ego isn't it? I feel that I should retreat into a better form of Zen Buddhism than this kind of ego-dominated thing. But I don't know, I mean, I want to come back as a tree but I suspect that it's just not going to happen, is it?

I am mad, I think. I am mad therefore I think. I am mad therefore I think I am.

Not being published would be great. When I say that to other writers they look at me as if I'm totally insane.

Probably not needing to be published would give me more time to think about a book.

Alternate history fascinates me, as it fascinates all novelists, because 'What if?' is the big thing.

Julia's vocabulary was "chock-full" of strangely archaic words - "spiffing," "crumbs," "jeepers" - that seemed to have originated in some prewar girls' annual rather than in Julia's own life. For Jackson, words were functional, they helped you get to places and explain things. For Julia, they were freighted with inexplicable emotion.

If they would all sleep all the time she wouldn't mind being their mother.