For one reason or another, I became a passionate reader when I was very little. As soon as I could read, I wanted to read.

It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not.

Let me tell you, there's no better medicine than a friendly card game for sloughing off the cares of a workaday world.

Late style gets simpler and shorter, and here, I'm getting more abundant as I get older!

You can look at my autobiographical pieces as source books... But, you see, my fiction doesn't revolve around autobiographical questions.

Holes in the memory. You grab on to some things, others have completely disappeared.

I don't have all the facts. And I might misremember. As a matter of fact, after I finished Winter Journal, I realized that I'd gotten someone's name wrong.