God pity the poor novelist.

So imagine a fire going -- wood snapping the way it does when it’s a little green — the wind rattling the windows behind the curtains -- and one of those Chopin melodies that feel like sorrow and ecstasy all mixed together pouring from the keys -- and you have my idea of happiness. Or just reading, reading and lamplight, the sound of pages turning. And so you dare to be happy. You do that thing. You dare.

I’m pleased by anything in myself that strikes me as not myself.

God pity the poor novelist.

His ambition was to insert his dreams into the world, and if they were the wrong dreams, then he would dream them in solitude.

Perhaps sound is only an insanity of silence, a mad gibber of empty space grown fearful of listening to itself and hearing nothing.

We know nothing. Absolutely nothing.