Obviously the facts are never just coming at you but are incorporated by an imagination that is formed by your previous experience. Memories of the past are not memories of facts but memories of your imaginings of the facts.

Everyone becomes a part of history whether they like it or not and whether they know it or not.

I turn sentences around. That's my life. I write a sentence and then I turn it around. Then I look at it and turn it around again.

The book really comes to life in the rewriting.

The only obsession everyone wants: 'love.' People think that in falling in love they make themselves whole? The Platonic union of souls? I think otherwise. I think you're whole before you begin. And the love fractures you. You're whole, and then you're cracked open.

The danger with hatred is, once you start in on it, you get a hundred times more than you bargained for. Once you start, you can't stop.

Is an intelligent human being likely to be much more than a large-scale manufacturer of misunderstanding?