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

I'm not sure if you're the person for me any more.

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

Something in me was changed by Lincoln in the Bardo, and the great sublime/grotesque risk of [George Saunders'] ghosts was a part of it.

This is what divorce is: taking things you no longer want from people you no longer love.

I'm just interested in women's friendships generally. It always seems to me, and this is just my pet theory, that women are kind of at the sharp end of capitalism one way or another. Mainly because they buy everything. In a practical sense, women buy most things. They're always comparing - to friends, to famous people, to other people. An obsessive act of comparison.

The choices a writer makes within a tradition - preferring Milton to Moliere, caring for Barth over Barthelme - constitute some of the most personal information we can have about him.