I do have people in mind when I write. I don't know precisely who they are, however, or how many of them there are.

Perhaps we had at last reached that stage of intimacy that destroys intimacy.

The only really good piece of advice I have for my students is, 'Write something you'd never show your mother or father. And you know what they say? I could never do that!'

An agony. The exit like the entrance - but reserved. A palindrome: gut-tug.

Once love had seemed like magic. Now it seemed like tricks.

Perhaps she drives men away. Perhaps, without even being able to help herself, she just puts men into her ill-tempered car and drives them off: to quarries, dumps, small anonymous bodies of water.

I don't have a love life. I have a like life.