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.

Some events take a lifetime to reveal their damage and influence.

This last night we tear into each other, as if to wound, as if to find the key to everything before morning.

I often need a limited space. It's like having a house to roam around in and reinvent and have things to happen in, kind of like a French farce. Doors opening, doors closing, new people arriving, and disappearing, and so forth.

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.

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

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.