This was the time in her life that she fell upon books as the only door out of her cell. They became half her world.

You're getting everyone's point of view at the same time, which for me, is the perfect state for a novel: a cubist state, the cubist novel.

All I ever wanted was a world without maps.

She entered the story knowing she would emerge from it feeling she had been immersed in the lives of others, in plots that stretched back twenty years, her body full of sentences and moments, as if awaking from sleep with a heaviness caused by unremembered dreams.

You want to suggest something new, but at the same time, resolve the drama of the action in the novel.

I don't have a plan for a story when I sit down to write. I would get quite bored carrying it out.

Here. Where I am anonymous and alone in a white room with no history and no parading. So I can make something unknown in the shape of this room. Where I am King of Corners.