In The Interestings I wanted to write about what happens to talent over time. In some people talent blooms, in others it falls away.

Both my mother and I have close groups of friends that include other writers, and these friendships are very important to us.

It seemed that everywhere you went, people quickly adapted to the way they had to live, and called it Life.

Being a teacher at a restaurant in the town where you lived was a little like being a TV star.

But, she knew, you didn’t have to marry your soulmate, and you didn’t even have to marry an Interesting. You didn’t always need to be the dazzler, the firecracker, the one who cracked everyone up, or made everyone want to sleep with you, or be the one who wrote and starred in the play that got the standing ovation. You could cease to be obsessed with the idea of being interesting.

For me, a novel relying too heavily on a single idea might be a dry, deadly thing unless it possesses an animating force.

People like to warn you that by the time you reach the middle of your life, passion will begin to feel like a meal eaten long ago, which you remember with great tenderness.