I've always enjoyed that kind of thing - thinking about the production of narrative and why it is that when we read a novel, we don't notice the fact that someone who might be very close-mouthed or tight-lipped is perfectly willing to tell us a story in 600 or 700 pages.

And I realize that the decision to be human is not one single instant, but is a thousand choices made very day. It is choices we make every second and requires constant vigilance. We have to fight to remain human.

I could see my face, crying, in her blank eye.

We went to the moon to have fun, but the moon turned out to completely suck.

I feel like it's hard to get into historical novels where you know what the story is far too well.

A lot of the drive to make narratives came from having to play by myself as a 5- or 6-year-old in the woods.

The sky was as blue as a stupid postcard, and the islands were as green as islands.