No male writer is likely to be asked to sit on a panel addressing itself to the special problems of a male writer.

I lie on the floor, washed by nothing and hanging on. I cry at night. I am afraid of hearing voices, or a voice. I have come to the edge, of the land. I could get pushed over.

After everything that's happened, how can the world still be so beautiful? Because it is.

He considers me also a little fragile because artistic. I need to be cared for, like a potted plant.

It's rather useless to write a gripping narrative with nothing in it but climate change because novels are always about people even if they purport to be about rabbits or robots.

You can think clearly only with your clothes on.

I'm a person of whim, and easily distracted. I don't like multitasking. When I'm doing one thing, I like to do just that thing.