In the desert you celebrate nothing but water.

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.

Half a page--and the morning is already ancient.

I love the performance of a craft, whether it is modest or mean-spirited, yet I walk away when discussions of it begin - as if one should ask a gravedigger what brand of shovel he uses or whether he prefers to work at noon or in moonlight. I am interested only in the care taken, and those secret rehearsals behind it. Even if I do not understand fully what is taking place.

He will hear the rain before he feels it, a clicking on the dry grass, on the olive leaves.

A writer uses a pen instead of a scalpel or blow torch.

I don't see novels ending with any real sense of closure.