I've gotten a lot of livid letters about the awfulness of my work. I've never known what to make of it. Why do people bother to write if they hate what I do?

Remember how you used to be able to feel your bed breathing and the walls spinning when you were a kid?

I am about as detailed as a shadow.

When you think about it, giving up your real personality is a small price to pay for the richness of living happily ever after with an actual man!

What is an idea made of? Of future, past and also meanwhile.

You can't know what a book is about until the very end. This is true of a book we're reading or writing.

For horror movies, color is reassuring because, at least in older films, it adds to the fakey-ness.