I guess the toughest things in translations are word play, which can never be reproduced exactly.

The truth of the story lies in the details.

How can you think about the world without factoring in the unforseen, the fluke event?

I use things, I steal things from my life when I want to, when I need to, or when it seems appropriate. But most of the stuff in my novels is entirely invented, ninety-five percent. And even when I do borrow something, it becomes fictionalized.

You're too good for this world, and because of that the world will eventually crush you.

Money, of course, is never just money. It's always something else, and it's always something more, and it always has the last word.

I've been trying to fit everything in, trying to get to the end before it's too late, but I see now how badly I've deceived myself. Words do not allow such things. The closer you come to the end, the more there is to say. The end is only imaginary, a destination you invent to keep yourself going, but a point comes when you realize you will never get there. You might have to stop, but that is only because you have run out of time. You stop, but that does not mean you have come to an end.