That is the strangeness of language: it crosses the boundaries of the body, is at once inside and outside, and it sometimes happens that we don't notice the threshold has been crossed.

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

Depression is when you think there's nothing to be done. Fortunately I always think there's something to be done.

Whenever I sign books, I get this line over and over again from men: "I don't read fiction, but my wife does. Would you sign the book to her?" What are those men doing there? And where are their wives?

Men generally do not see women as competition.

Dreaming is another form of thinking, more concrete, more economical, more visual, and often more emotional than the thoughts of the day, but a thinking through of the day, nevertheless.

Every sickness has an alien quality, a feeling of invasion and loss of control that is evident in the language we use about it.