Virginia Woolf came along in the early part of the century and essentially said through her writing, yes, big books can be written about the traditional big subjects. There is war. There is the search for God. These are all very important things.

What I wanted to do seemed simple. I wanted something alive and shocking enough that it could be a morning in somebody's life. The most ordinary morning. Imagine, trying to do that.

What do you do when you're no longer the hero of your own story?

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

I know, speaking for myself, no matter what I'm able to do, no matter what book comes out and ends up on paper, I always had something bigger and grander in my head.

What does it mean to regret when you have no choice? It's what you can bear. And there it is... It was death. I chose life.

What she wants to say has to do not only with joy but with the penetrating, constant fear that is joy's other half.