As writers, we are exploring the mystery, the mystery of existence.

Keenness of hearing revives when one is alone.

The solitude of writing is also quite frightening. It's quite close to madness, one just disappears for a day and loses touch.

Writers themselves don't analyze what they do; to analyze would be to look down while crossing a canyon on a tightrope.

I cannot live with someone who can't live without me.

Any writer of any worth at all hopes to play only a pocket-torch of light - and rarely, through genius, a sudden flambeau - into the bloody yet beautiful labyrinth of human experience, of being.

Humans, the only self-regarding animals, blessed or cursed with this torturing higher faculty, have always wanted to know why.