You can't do science in a novel, but you can do philosophy. Or, if you're really lucky, you can manage to pose a question in such a way that other people will take it on.

People make events into stories. Stories give events meaning.

For other people, love is like some rare orchid that can only grow in one place under a certain set of conditions. For me it's like bindweed. It grows with no encouragement at all, under any conditions, and just strangles everything else.

In real life nothing means anything. Stuff happens and there just is no structure.

Honesty and authenticity are a big deal for me.

I'm a great believer in gathering together all your obsessions and seeing if you can make a novel out of them.

I wonder at what point my life swerved to avoid that, and if that life would have been nicer than the one I've got.