There is a story, always ahead of you. Barely existing. Only gradually do you attach yourself to it and feed it. You discover the carapace that will contain and test your character. You will find in this way the path of your life.

Why are you not smarter? It's only the rich who can't afford to be smart. They're compromised. They got locked years ago into privilege. They have to protect their belongings. No one is meaner than the rich. Trust me. But they have to follow the rules of their shitty civilised world. They declare war, they have honour, and they can't leave. But you two. We three. We're free.

He came to this country like a torch on fire and he swallowed air as he walked forward and he gave out light

Over the years, confusing fragments, lost corners of stories, have a clearer meaning when seen in a new light, a different place.

He walked out of the hospital into the sun, into open air for the first time in months, out of the green-lit rooms that lay like glass in his mind. He stood there breathing everything in, the hurry of everyone. First, he thought, I need shoes with rubber on the bottom. I need gelato.

There's a lot of thievery involved in writing. You're breaking into other people's spaces and other people's stories.

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