For some reason, all my characters come to me with their names attached to them. I never have to search for the names.

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

I've written books that have taken me fifteen years, from first sentence to last, and some that only take three or four months.

I think most writers can't really think about their work without a kind of revulsion. And I think that's probably why we keep going back and trying again, trying to do better each time.

He no longer wished to be dead. At the same time, it cannot be said that he was glad to be alive. But at least he did not resent it. He was alive, and the stubbornness of this fact had little by little begun to fascinate him - as if he had managed to outlive himself, as if he were somehow living a posthumous life.

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

It often happens that things are other than what they seem, and you can get yourself into trouble by jumping to conclusions.