When I begin a story at my desk, the window to my back, the path is not there. As I start to walk, I make the path.

I have a painter's memory. I can remember things from my childhood which were so powerfully imprinted on me, the whole scene comes back.

You'll see some bad things, but if you didn't see them, they'd still be happening.

When there's a terrible murder people who are interviewed say, 'This has always been a quiet neighborhood.' That is so dumb and uninformed! The earth is not a quiet neighborhood. There isn't anyplace that's a quiet neighborhood. People are asking themselves how to stay neat in the cyclone.

Life is all getting used to what you're not used to.

People steal into one's consciousness and occupy what seems, in retrospect, to have been their place all along.

When I had a few francs, I spent them at a café on the Place de Longchamps, a block or so from my pension, where I could order a glass of Beaujolais and a plate of string beans in vinaigrette for the equivalent of fifteen cents.