The idea that we've outgrown ends up limiting us and we have to make a choice about what we're going to do in our lives.

Sometimes I thought about nothing and sometimes I thought about my life. At least I made a living. What kind of living? A living. It wasn't easy. I found out how little is unbearable.

At first Babel longed for the use of just two words: Yes and No. But he knew that just to utter a single word would be to destroy the delicate fluency of silence.

Alone in my room, wrapped in a blanket, I whimpered and talked aloud to myself, recalling the lost glory of my youth when I considered myself, and was considered by others, a bright and capable person. It seemed that was all gone now.

Perhaps that is what it means to be a father - to teach your child to live without you.

I think of novels as houses. You live in them over the course of a long period, both as a reader and as a writer.

The idea that we've outgrown ends up limiting us and we have to make a choice about what we're going to do in our lives.