The trouble with all of us is we are where we shouldn't be.

You don't want to write your own opinion, you don't want to just represent yourself, but represent yourself through someone else.

She had grown older. And he loved her more now than he had loved her when he understood her better, when she was the product of her parents. What she was now was what she herself had decided to become.

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

Her life with others no longer interests him. He wants only her stalking beauty, her theatre of expressions. He wants the minute secret reflection between them, the depth of field minimal, their foreignness intimate like two pages of a closed book.

The one of the great sadnesses of any life is knowing what you know now and then remembering what you did not know then.

People don't write about kids; you have to give them a lot of freedom, and that causes anarchy and that causes farce.