I can't write if someone else is in the house, not even the cleaning woman.

Dusk was falling quickly. It was just after 7 P.M., and the month was October.

What was it to love someone, what was love exactly, and why did it end or not end? Those were the real questions, and who could answer them?

How was it possible to be afraid and in love... The two things did not go together. How was it possible to be afraid, when the two of them grew stronger together every day? And every night. Every night was different, and every morning. Together they possessed a miracle.

When I am thickening my plots, I like to think 'What if ... What if ... ' Thus my imagination can move from the likely, which everyone can think of, to the unlikely-but-possible, my preferred plot.

I have no television - I hate it.

Life is a long failure of understanding ... a long, mistaken shutting of the heart.