... the desert, where there is the communal book of moonlight. We were among the rumour of wells. In the palace of winds.

Fathers die.You keep on loving them in any way you can.You can't hide him away in your heart.

I don't have a plan for a story when I sit down to write. I would get quite bored carrying it out.

Sadness is very close to hate.

For we live with those retrievals from childhood that coalesce and echo throughout our lives, the way shattered pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope reappear in new forms and are songlike in their refrains and rhymes, making up a single monologue. We live permanently in the recurrence of our own stories, whatever story we tell.

She moved from being a young woman into having the angular look of a queen, someone who has made her face with her desire to be a certain kind of person. He still likes that about her. Her smartness, the fact that she did not inherit that look or that beauty, but it was something searched for and that it will always reflect a present stage of her character.

A novel is a mirror walking down a road