I guess we're really brothers, aren't we? Don't know what that means, except it means that some of the same things we remember.

And in the end, of course, a true war story is never about war. It's about sunlight. It's about the special way that dawn spreads out on a river when you know you must cross the river and march into the mountains and do things you are afraid to do. It's about love and memory. It's about sorrow. It's about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.

Life is never all one thing. It bounces around. Certainly, my own life has.

Did I choose this life of illusion? Don't be mad. My bed was made, I just lied in it.

Each of us, I suppose needs his illusions. Life after death. A maker of planets. A woman to love, a man to hate. Something sacred. But what a waste.

It's very hard to articulate the things that are important about writing.

Fiction is the lie that helps us understand the truth.