In Tar Baby, the classic concept of the individual with a solid, coherent identity is eschewed for a model of identity which sees the individual as a kaleidoscope of heterogeneous impulses and desires, constructed from multiple forms of interaction with the world as a play of difference that cannot be completely comprehended.

The screams of a hurt woman were indistinguishable from everyday traffic.

I sometimes lose interest in the characters and get much more interested in the trees and animals.

Now what? All the battles feminists won about not being a sex object, not being evaluated based on these things, that now other generations are wallowing in, the extremes they go to, to look sexually attractive? It's stunning how things that one fought desperately for are just being tossed aside with aplomb.

He leans over and takes her hand. With the other he touches her face. ‘You your best thing, Sethe. You are.’ His holding fingers are holding hers. ‘Me? Me?

I don't wait to be struck by lightning and I don't need certain slants of light in order to be able to write.

The best art is political and you ought to be able to make it unquestionably political and irrevocably beautiful at the same time.