We read each other through our eyes, and anatomically they are an extension of our brains. When we catch someone's eye, we look into a mind.

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.

Ture stories can't be told forward, only backward. We invent them from the vantage point of an ever-changing present and tell ourselves how they unfolded.

Our memory fragments don't have any coherence until they're imagined in words. Time is a property of language, of syntax, and tense.

We lose ourselves in stories; that's the beauty of literary art.

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

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