His teeth sang in their individual sockets like tuning forks, each one pitch-perfect and clear as ethanol.

Some very considerable part of the gestural language of public places that had once belonged to cigarettes now belonged to phones.

I'm a reluctant writer of non-fiction, in part because I don't really feel qualified.

I very seldom compose anything in my head which later finds its way into text, except character names sometimes - I'm often very much inspired by things that I misunderstand.

Five hours' New York jet lag and Cayce Pollard wakes in Camden Town to the dire and ever-circling wolves of disrupted circadian rhythm.

Time moves in one direction, memory in another.

Naps are essential to my process. Not dreams, but that state adjacent to sleep, the mind on waking.