Love is the use one makes of another.

It's a discovery of a story when I write a book, a case of inching ahead on each page and discovering what's beyond in the darkness, beyond where you're writing.

That's one of the great sadnesses of any life - knowing what you know now and then remembering what you did not know then.

What is interesting and important happens mostly in secret, in places where there is no power.

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

The past is still, for us, a place that is not safely settled.

A postcard. Neat handwriting fills the rectangle. Half my days I cannot bear to touch you. The rest of my time I feel like it doesn’t matter if I will ever see you again. It isn’t the morality, it’s how much you can bear. No date. No name attached.