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

Many of the concepts we once thought belonged to speculation or science fiction are now part of our understood reality.

The novel's not the best form for disposing ideas, though that's one thing it can do. It likely is the best form, though, for conveying the experience of us each being alone, trapped in our skulls with only these bodies and this imperfect instrument of language to convey our state and to find meaning and connection.

Science is claiming ever more ground from popular stories of the kind we thought we weren't to believe in.

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

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.

We want to know that we're not alone with our loneliness or loss.