A book, a true book, is the writer's confessional. For, whether he would have it so or not, he is betrayed, directly or indirectly, by his characters, into presenting publicly his innermost feelings.

There's people in hell who want ice water.

To literary critics a book is assumed to be guilty until it proves itself innocent.

It is strange how fragile this man-creature is.....in one second he's just garbage. Garbage, that's all.

And money can't buy everything. For example: poverty.

The only way I could finish a book and get a plot was just to keep making it longer until something happens.

He was falling between glacial walls, he didn't know how anyone could fall so far away from everyone else in the world. So far to fall, so cold all the way, so steep and dark between those morphine-coloured walls.