One of the paradoxes of writing is that when you write non-fiction everyone tries to prove that it's wrong, and when you publish fiction, everyone tries to see the truth in it.

I pray for meaning. I pray for the limits of reality to become clear. For a world – and a type of being – that makes sense. I pray for a life after death that is not like this life. I pray for the end of mystery. What would a life be like with all the mysteries solved? If there were no questions, there’d be no stories. If there were no stories, there’d be no language. If there was no language there’d be no . . . What?

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

I wonder if the reason I tend to say yes to everything is because I deeply believe that I can survive anything.

What folly takes light through ether to each eye from every horizon.

I erased the thought from my mind, but I couldn't undo the fact that I'd had the thought in the first place.

Some writers, notably Anton Chekov, argue that all characters must be admirable, because once we've looked at anyone deeply enough and understood their motivation we must identify with them rather than judge them.