When I write stories I am like someone who is in her own country, walking along streets that she has known since she was a child, between walls and trees that are hers.
No adultery is bloodless.
Every day silence harvests its victims. Silence is a mortal illness.
Over my real sorrows I never weep.
I think of a writer as a river: you reflect what passes before you.
And we are a people without tears. The things that moved our parents do not move us at all.