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

We are all here, on this earth for only one go around. And everyone thinks their purpose is to just find their passion. But perhaps our purpose is to find what other people need.

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

You had only one chance for a signature in life, but most people left no impression.

And didn't it always go like that--body parts not lining up the way you wanted them to, all of it a little bit off, as if the world itself were an animated sequence of longing and envy and self-hatred and grandiosity and failure and success, a strange and endless cartoon loop that you couldn't stop watching, because, despite all you knew by now, it was still so interesting.

Part of the beauty of love was that you didn’t need to explain it to anyone else. You could refuse to explain. With love, apparently you didn’t necessarily feel the need to explain anything at all.

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