The last page of [Lincoln in the Bardo] - without giving too much away - involves somebody entering somebody else. Not in a sexual way. But it says one of the simplest things you could ever say, which is that we must try and be inside each other. We must have some kind of feeling for each other and enter into each other's experience.

The object of the passion is just an accessory to the passion itself.

Today, writing seems to me like an incredible luxury, almost a perversity, something which hardly exists in the world anymore, where you get to see the fruits of your actions in a daily way.

For ridding oneself of faith is like boiling seawater to retrieve the salt--something is gained but something is lost.

The library was the place I went to find out what there was to know. It was absolutely essential.

It was a kiss from the past.

He had her in his heart, but not always in his mind.