There are words and words and none mean anything. And then one sentence means everything.

Love is the scent of a sleeping back, death a slight draft of bad breath.

I had some bad jobs when I was young. Writing is not one of them. If you're fortunate enough to reach my age, to still be writing, you have to be grateful, and I am. I've been lucky. For many years, all I've done is writing, and it's all I've ever wanted to do.

In the end you're not made or broken by prizes. Your relationship is with your readers, not a prize, and you just have to keep on honoring that.

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

A good book ... leaves you wanting to reread the book. A great book compels you to reread your own soul.

What you're constantly seeking isn't a style, but a transparency between your soul and the words. And your soul is ever in flux, so therefore you have to constantly find new forms of words that might be able to register these changes in the soul.