Abraham Zogoiby covered his face that night in August 1939 because he had been assailed by fear, [...] a sudden apprehension that the ugliness of life might defeat its beauty; that love did not make lovers invulnerable. Nevertheless, he thought, even if the world's beauty and love were on the edge of destruction, theirs would still be the only side to be on; defeated love would still be love, hate's victory would not make it other than it was.

I think the business of writing a great deal of it is the business of paying attention to your characters, to the world they live in, to the story you have to tell, but just a kind of deep attention and out of that if you pay attention properly the story will tell you what it needs.

Most of what matters in your life takes place in your absence.

A book is not completed till it's read.

One either loves, or waits for love, or banishes love for good. That is the full range of possible choices.

It matters, it always matters, to name rubbish as rubbish; that to do otherwise is to legitimize it.

With death comes honesty.