People run away to be alone,' he said. Some people had to be alone.

I get melancholy if I don't [write]. I need the company of people who don't exist.

As the surface of the seashore rocks were pitted by by the waves and gathered limpets that further disguised what lay beneath, so time made truth of what appeared to be. The days that passed, in becoming weeks, still did not disturb the surface an assumption had created. The weather of a beautiful summer continued with neither sign nor hint that credence had been misplaced. The single sandal found among the rocks became a sodden image of death; and as the keening on the pier at Kilauran traditionally marked distres brought by the sea, so did silence at Lahardane.

The capacity you're thinking of is imagination; without it there can be no understanding, indeed no fiction.

As a writer one doesn’t belong anywhere. Fiction writers, I think, are even more outside the pale, necessarily on the edge of society. Because society and people are our meat, one really doesn’t belong in the midst of society. The great challenge in writing is always to find the universal in the local, the parochial. And to do that, one needs distance.

I read hungrily and delightedly, and have realized since that you can’t write unless you read.

I believe in not quite knowing. A writer needs to be doubtful, questioning. I write out of curiosity and bewilderment.