People often ask me how I make things funny. I don't make things funny.

He looks like he could be taken in a fight. Not by me, but by somebody. Not anyone in Humanities, probably.

Not everyone writes well from a child's point of view.

I don't think there's a shortage of material in the world. Or in my head. I just pray for continued good health, because I've got other stories to tell.

When I look back over my novels what I find is that when I think I'm finished with a theme, I'm generally not. And usually themes will recur from novel to novel in odd, new guises.

That afternoon I came to understand that one of the deepest purposes of intellectual sophistication is to provide distance between us and our most disturbing personal truths and gnawing fears.

I've never written nearly as much about place as people seem to think I do. I just write about class.