Come on, is your heart a sponge or a fist?

I've always written about animals. I'm still trying to process why that is.

No matter how grave the secret, how imperative absolute silence, someone would always feel the urge to confess, and an unleashed secret is a terrible force.

In my earliest memory, my grandfather is bald as a stone and he takes me to see the tigers.

At the end of the day, despite all the other great things that literature does in society and in a person's life, I think that we read to escape. And I think that place, more than anything, provides that escape quickly, if an author is engaged with the place.

I do no writing while I'm in Belgrade visiting my grandma.

I think the mythology of death really ran away with me when I was very young.