We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep--it's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself.

Please, God, send me something to adore.

a certain bohemian, good-witch sort of charm

But there are still the hours, aren't there? One and then another, and you get through that one and then, my god, there's another.

Silly humans. Banging on a tub to make a bear dance when we would move the stars to pity.

What I want to say is that I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. Everything is gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.

I seem to produce a novel approximately once every three years.