One had to build shelters. One had to make pockets and live inside them.

Love drains you, takes with it much of your blood sugar and water weight. You are like a house slowly losing its electricity, the fans slowing, the lights dimming and flickering; the clocks stop and go and stop.

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.

Sometimes I ask myself if writing novels is even respectable.

She was not good on the phone. She needed the face, the pattern of eyes, nose, trembling mouth... People talking were meant to look at a face, the disastrous cupcake of it, the hide-and-seek of the heart dashing across. With a phone, you said words, but you never watched them go in. You saw them off at the airport but never knew whether there was anyone there to greet them when they got off the plane.

I wondered about the half-life of regret.

We were in dialogue that was about something other than what we were saying.