We're getting used to reality and fantasy passing into each other. Much of the border between them has been erased.

We can't write a serious novel in the 21st century without acknowledging the inescapable self-awareness we're stuck with. The idea we're surrounded by falsehoods and lies. It's hard for the thinking person to believe in narratives. And yet we want some place to invest our belief.

There's some evidence that before events of mass trauma, even unpredictable ones, people begin to feel higher anxiety, often expressed in terms specific to the event.

The idea that language can be recombined to create new forms, new things, is of course very old in poetry.

I'm not even sure if empathy is an act, it could be a disposition.

Paranoia can be a sign of a sanity in some circumstances, in some places and times.

I just write what I want to read, and sometimes keeping it interesting means adding one more element that ends up adding another year to the work.