He knows that the only way he can accept losing her is if he can continue to hold her or be held by her. If they can somehow nurse each other out of this. Not with a wall.

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

When you're writing, it's as if you're within a kind of closed world.

A novel is a mirror walking down a road

When I write my novels I don't really have a huge plan beforehand; I don't have the whole plot and architecture, so the story is sort of discovered as I write it.

So the books for the Englishman, as he listened intently or not, had gaps of plot like sections of a road washed out by storms, missing incidents as if locusts had consumed a section of tapestry, as if plaster loosened by the bombing had fallen away from a mural at night.

Come. We must go deeper with no justice and no jokes.