It's always a thrilling risk to say exactly what you mean, to express exactly what you see.

Maybe being oneself is always an acquired taste.

The future is here, now, and the past is full of actual deeds, real history. Utopias hardly have the meat on their bones to sustain a people in grave times.

Looking repeatedly into the past, you do not necessarily become fascinated with your own life, but rather with the phenomenon of memory.

No memoirists writes for long without experiencing an unsettling disbelief about the reliability of memory, a hunch that memory is not, after all, just memory.

The world is full of mystery but it must not be choked with secrets: we must talk to one another.

Writing is so hard. And then, sometimes, it is so bewilderingly easy.