You can’t know what goes on between a man and a woman unless you write the novel yourself.
The mystery of the universe, for me, is what it looks like for someone else.
He should start thinking about people he actually wants to see except that he can’t think of anyone he really wants to see. Nobody he knows in person anyhow. He wouldn’t mind seeing Willow the French Canadian porn star. He wouldn’t mind seeing Captain Kydd the pirate so he could ask him about the buried treasure.
One of the extraordinary adaptive powers of our species is its ability to transmute a stray encounter into a first chapter.
I will create a brand new God and thank him with piercing cries, if you only give me this microscopic hope.
The first sentence of every novel should be: ‘Trust me, this will take time but there is order here, very faint, very human.’
In order to see anything—a leaf or a blade of grass—you have, I think, to know the keenness of love.
Only rarely, at the end of our century, does life offer up a vision as pure and peaceful as this one: a solitary man on a bucket, fishing through eighteen inches of ice in a lake that’s constantly turning over its water atop an arcadian mountain in America.