A hot wind was blowing around my head, the strands of my hair lifting and swirling in it, like ink spilled in water.

poetry is where the language is renewed.

I was once a graduate student in Victorian literature, and I believe as the Victorian novelists did, that a novel isn't simply a vehicle for private expression, but that it also exists for social examination. I firmly believe this.

I am afraid of falling into hopeless despair, over my wasted life, and I am still not sure how it happened.

It's in Macbeth: "The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon." I seldom have occasion to pull it out, but it's ready and waiting!

The fabric of democracy is always fragile everywhere because it depends on the will of citizens to protect it, and when they become scared, when it becomes dangerous for them to defend it, it can go very quickly.

The future of narrative? Built in, part of the human template. Not going away.