That is what you have to do before you kill, I thought. You have to create an it, where none was before.

Old lovers go the way of old photographs, bleaching out gradually as in a slow bath of acid: first the moles and pimples, then the shadings. Then the faces themselves, until nothing remains but the general outlines.

Happiness is a garden walled with glass: there's no way in or out. In Paradise there are no stories, because there are no journeys. It's loss and regret and misery and yearning that drive the story forward, along its twisted road.

This is how the girl who couldn't speak and the man who couldn't see fell in love.

Genres aren't closed boxes. Stuff flows back and forth across the borders all the time.

The true story is vicious and multiple and untrue after all. Why do you need it? Don’t ever ask for the true story.

The truth is seldom welcome, especially at dinner.