My novels are often about people who are in love or attracted to each other.

We never love anyone. Not really. We only love our idea of another person. It is some conception of our own that we love. We love ourselves, in fact.

When you experience bereavement at a youngish age, you suddenly realise that life is unjust and unfair, that bad things will happen, and you have to take that on board.

I have teken refuge in the doctrine that advises one not to seek tranquility in certainty but in permanently suspended judgement.

Sometimes limbo is a tolerable place to be stuck.

I tend to admire dead people more than the living. All too often, human reality diminishes the glowing reputation.

I let people off the hook too easily.