I'm just like this. I have no talent for choosing my battles. Life seems, strangely, like a battle to me. The whole thing.

Winning doesn't mean my book is better than anyone else's. It means I'm very fortunate. And I should be very, very aware of that. And grateful.

I had to learn compassion. Had to learn what it felt like to hate, and to forgive and to love and be loved. And to lose people close to me. Had to feel deep loneliness and sorrow. And then I could write.

It's a shame that creativity and sloth look exactly the same.

Few things are better in the world than a room full of librarians. I consider them literary heroes. The keepers and defenders of the written word.

Foolish people are never harmless. Stupidity accounts for as many crimes as anger and greed.

But there was no hiding from Conscience. Not in new homes and new cars. In travel. In meditation or frantic activity. In children, in good works. On tiptoes or bended knee. In a big career. Or a small cabin. It would find you. The past always did. Which was why... it was vital to be aware of actions in the present. Because the present became the past, and the past grew. And got up, and followed you. And found you... Who wouldn't be afraid of this?