Fiction is an elemental force, which has the power to shape reality in its own image - or images, I should say - because reality, like light, exists not only as a single point or particle, but also as an array of possibilities.

Information is a lot like water; it's hard to hold on to, and hard to keep from leaking away.

You never know who it's going to be, or what they'll bring, but whatever it is, it's always exactly what is needed.

She missed the built environment of New York City. It was only in an urban landscape, amid straight lines and architecture, that she could situate herself in human time and history. She missed people. She missed human intrigue, drama and power struggles. She needed her own species, not to talk to, necessarily, but just to be among, as a bystander in a crowd or an anonymous witness.

The important thing was that we were being polite and not saying all the things that were making us unhappy, which was the only way we knew how to love each other.

An unfinished book. left unattended, turns feral, and she would need all her focus, will and ruthless determination to tame it again.

Both life and death manifest in every moment of existence. Our human body appears and disappears moment by moment, without cease, and this ceaseless arising and passing away is what we experience as time and being. They are not separate. They are one thing, and in even a fraction of a second, we have the opportunity to choose, and to turn the course of our action either toward the attainment of truth or away from it. Each instant is utterly critical to the whole world.