I could be blindfolded and dropped into the deepest ocean and I would know where to find you. I could be buried a hundred miles underground and I would know where you are.

This is the only country in the world, that worries about what it is. The rest of them know what they are. No one ever needs to go searching for the heart of Norway. Or looks for the soul of Mozambique. They know what they are.

If you only write when inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet, but you'll never be a novelist.

What do I do now?” “I don’t know. Fade away, perhaps. Or find another role.

Even if your goose habitually lays golden eggs, it will still be cooked.

Everything in journalism is about the detail that makes the whole, the attempts to reproduce speech patterns while not actually quoting the whole thing the person said.

This was the void. Not blackness, not nothingness. This was what lay beneath the thinly painted scrim of reality.