We live in a material world, not a dramatic one.

I think empathy's a terrible danger for a writer.

The monsters demand less of you as a writer because they're probably closer to who you are.

The fallacy is that you have to hold some sort of stake in the grief or horror in order to write about it - I think the opposite is true.

Literary prizes serve a purpose if they allow for discussion of books.

We remember nothing. Maybe for a year or two. Maybe most of a life, if we live. Maybe. But then we will die, and who will ever understand any of this? And maybe we remember nothing most of all when we put our hands on our hearts and carry on about not forgetting.

What reality was ever made by realists?