Anyone over the age of thirty catching a bus can consider himself a failure.

I know to argue against our online lives seems like the argument of the grumpy, old Luddite novelist, but I really always try to make the argument from the perspective of personal pleasure.

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

The idea that motherhood is inherently somehow a threat to creativity is just absurd.

To me, these kind of everyday miseries act as a fatal disqualifier. My sunniest beliefs are basically contingent on the fact that my child is not dying of cancer right now.

It wasn't like the spare rooms of immigrants - packed to the rafters with all that they have ever possessed, no matter how defective or damaged, mountains of odds and ends - the stand testament to the fact that they have things now, where before they had nothing.

I recognize myself to be an intensely naive person. Most novelists are, despite frequent pretensions to deep socio-political insight.