A map does not just chart, it unlocks and formulates meaning; it forms bridges between here and there, between disparate ideas that we did not know were previously connected.

I had trouble listening to adults who didn't really mean anything that they said; it was as if their language poured into my ears only to drain right out a little spigot in the back of my head.

I do love the sound of ripping corn husks. The violence of the noise, the sustained popping and shoring of the silky organic threads, made me think of someone tearing up an expensive and potentially Italian set of trousers in a fit of madness that this person just might regret later.

A text is evolutionary by its very nature.

I would not know what to say to you, except this: there was never a map that got it all right, and truth and beauty were never married to one another for long.

One cannot spend one's entire life running into bathrooms when danger calls!

A novel is a tricky thing to map.