I really do like to write and when I'm not, I think, "Okay, I'll be a good citizen now" but fact is, that's secondary.

I imagined a psychic pain growing inside him (myself) that demanded some physical outlet. Suicide must have been his attempt to give Pain a body, a representation, to put it outside himself. A need to convert inner torment into some outward tangible wound that all could see. It was almost as though suicide were a last-ditch effort at exorcism, in which the person sacrificed his life in order that the devil inside might die.

For most of my life, I have wanted broad impact but now, at 72, I'm not so sure that's always my first priority.

If someone in my family is getting emotionally bent out of shape, I've had to learn to adapt.

My wife and daughter have accused me of being too silent at breakfast but I don't want to talk when I don't have much to say.

It bothers me when I can't, for example, remember a name. I don't know if it's pre-senility or whether there are too many names packed in our brains.

I'm fortunate in being able to find great satisfaction in my work.