He learned to live with the truth. Not to accept it, but to live with it.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. It took seven languages to make me; it would be nice if I could have spoken just one.

I take almost no notes when I write. I have one notebook - this old green leather notebook that my dad gave me a decade ago.

I do realize that the reader needs some form of resolution. Sometimes I think of it almost like writing a musical score where things have to harmonize and certain lines have to come to a close.

When will you learn that there isn't a word for everything?

Don’t you see?” I said. “He could change every detail, but he couldn’t change her.” “But why?” His obtuseness frustrated me. “Because he was in love with her!” I said. “Because, to him, she was the only thing that was real.

You can't imagine how hard I am on myself. Nothing pummels me like my own doubts, the feeling of how far I still have to go.