When I began to write novels, I wanted to keep that element of interaction with the reader that exists in poetry, not just for the reader to be shepherded from A to B to C to D but to participate, and the less you say sometimes, the better it is. You know, it's the way when someone speaks very quietly, you move forward so you can listen more carefully.

He turns his back to the far shore and rows toward it. He can in this way travel away from, yet still see, his house....he feels he is riding a floating skeleton...Some birds in the almost-dark are flying as close to their reflections as possible.

So we came to understand that small and important thing, that our lives could be large with interesting strangers who would pass us without any personal involvement.

...the heart is an organ of fire.

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

she had a laugh that hinted it had rolled around once or twice in the mud.

Nowadays he doesn't think of his wife, though he knows he can turn around and evoke every move of her, describe any aspect of her, the weigh of her wrist on his heart during the night.