Death, in the Eastern tradition, was only a passage. What wasn't clear ... was toward what place, what reality, that passage led.

For a moment the two of them looked at each other, wordless, as if they were asleep and their dreams had converged on common ground, a place where sound was alien.

Literature is the product of a strange rain of blood, sweat, semen, and tears.

Nothing good ever comes of love. What comes of love is always something better

You run risks. That's the plain truth. You run risks and, even in the most unlikely places, you are subject to destiny's whims.

I decided to tell the truth even if it meant being pointed at.

Literature is a vast forest and the masterpieces are the lakes, the towering trees or strange trees, the lovely, eloquent flowers, the hidden caves, but a forest is also made up of ordinary trees, patches of grass, puddles, clinging vines, mushrooms, and little wildflowers.