Most things good for writing are bad for life.

I don't care if I'm a fish, I still want a bicycle.

It was not miserable - often I did not miss her at all. But there was sometimes a quick, sinking ache when I walked in the door and saw she was not there. Twice, however, I'd felt the same sinking feeling when she was.

Things between us were dissolving like an ice cub in a glass: the smaller it got, the faster it disappeared.

An author's life is different, complex, and ongoing, while a character's remains frozen in one little story.

Surrealism could not be made up. It was the very electricity of the real.

You know, as fiction writers, if our instincts are off, we can't pay our bills.