As far as I'm concerned, if you want to find out about the last day of WWII or the roots of the Indian Mutiny, get thee to a books catalogue.

It reminds me that those of us who turn in disgust from what we consider an overinflated liberal-bourgeois sense of self should be careful what we wish for: our denuded networked selves don't look more free, they just look more owned.

Other people’s words are so important. And then without warning they stop being important, along with all those words of yours that their words prompted you to write. Much of the excitement of a new novel lies in the repudiation of the one written before. Other people’s words are the bridge you use to cross from where you were to wherever you’re going.

She loved you in the morning because the day was new.

The very reason I write is so that I might not sleepwalk through my entire life.

The lack of alternatives to an illegal action does not legitimise that action.

I often worry that my idea of personhood is nostalgic, irrational, inaccurate.