Sometimes language gets in the way of the story's feelings. The reader finds himself experiencing the language of the story rather than the story. The words sit there on the page like coins, with their own opacity, as though they're there for their own sake. "A man goes into a phone booth, stirring coins in his palm." "Stirring" is such an obviously selected word. You can feel the writer looking for the word as he sat at the typewriter.

There is always something for which there is no accounting. Take, for example, the whole world.

I read assiduously. I kept in touch with my species.

The prose as such has to be singing the song the story is telling.

I can only gesture at what makes a story good.

Some animals are secretive; some are shy. A cat is private.

Self-confidence can be crippling.