He needed to exist only in the present, without guilt, without expectation.

Maybe that's what love is, I thought: it's being pissed off.

You most likely need a thesaurus, a rudimentary grammar book, and a grip on reality. This latter means: there's no free lunch. Writing is work. It's also gambling. You don't get a pension plan. Other people can help you a bit, but ­essentially you're on your own. Nobody is making you do this: you chose it, so don't whine.

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

My brother and I were both teenage writers, and he was, I have to say, better than I was, but he went into science, and I went into writing.

Some cleric putting a match to her. /Neither of them looks happy about it. /Once lit, she'll burn like a book, /like a book that was ever finished, /like a locked-up library.

I want, I don’t want. How can one live with such a heart?