Dreams are stories made by and for the dreamer, and each dreamer has his own folds to open and knots to untie.

Writing fiction is like remembering what never happened.

Demonstration of mastery gives a feeling of power and that feeling of power is a good feeling.

The fictive is an emormous territory it turns out, its boundaries vague, and there is little certainty about where it begins and ends.

Libraries are sexual dream factories. The langour brings it on.

Reading is a private pursuit; one that takes place behind closed doors.

I remember thinking how easy it is to speak in clichés, to steal a line from pulp fiction and let it fall. We can only hover around the inexpressible with our words anyway, and there is comfort in saying what we have heard before.