As someone who writes novels that are often set in other periods of time or other ages or other landscapes, there's a certain element of research I have to do, and often, the more laconic people are, the more interesting they become.

As a writer, one is busy with archaeology.

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

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

From this point on, she whispered, we will either find or lose our souls.

He will hear the rain before he feels it, a clicking on the dry grass, on the olive leaves.

You must talk to me, Caravaggio. Or am I just a book? Something to be read, some creature to be tempted out of a loch and shot full of morphine, full of corridors, lies, loose vegetation, pockets of stones.