But in the end, back she comes. There's no use resisting. She goes to him for amnesia, for oblivion. She renders herself up, is blotted out; enters the darkness of her own body, forgets her name. Immolation is what she wants, however briefly. To exist without boundaries.

I am too old to have ever been very worried about what "genre" any given book of mine might be. I read everything. I am easily amused.

Now that I am dead, I know everything.

Nature is to zoos as God is to churches.

You need a certain amount of nerve to be a writer.

You hear doom and gloom about the Internet ruining young people's command of English - that's nonsense.

One and one and one and one doesn't equal four. Each one remains unique, there is no way of joining them together. They cannot be exchanged, one for the other. They cannot replace each other.