Terror is glamour - not only, but also. I am firmly convinced that there's something like a fascination with death among suicide bombers.

Many of us didn't believe in the image of bin Laden as a wandering Old Man of the Mountains, living on plants and insects in an inhospitable cave somewhere on the porous Pakistan-Afghan border.

Such is the miraculous nature of the future of exiles: what is first uttered in the impotence of an overheated apartment becomes the fate of nations.

It just requires so much of you, and most of the time you feel dumb.

It's obvious that I come down on the side of free speech for anybody's work.

The world is about the way in which our dreams intersect with our real life. Endlessly, the world of the imagination changes the world.

Home has become such a scattered, damaged, various concept in our present travails. There is so much to yearn for. There are so few rainbows any more.