The Novel Is Resilient, And So Are

A Plot Begins When Somebody Has Something To Hide.

When I Finish A Sentence, After Much Labor, It's Finished. A Certain Point Comes At Which You Can't Do Any More Work On It Because You Know It Will Kill The Sentence.

Dostoevsky Is Such A Bad Writer It Is Hard To Take Him Seriously As A Novelist, Though He Is A Wonderful Philosopher.

In The City Of Flesh I Travel Without Maps, A Worried Tourist: And Ottilie Was A Very Venice. I Stumbled Lost In The Blue Shade Of Her Pavements. Here Was A Dreamy Stillness, A Swaying, The Splash Of An Oar. Then, When I Least Expected It, Suddenly I Stepped Out Into The Great Square, The Sunlight, And She Was A Flock Of Birds Scattering With Soft Cries In My Arms.

How Flat All Sounds Are At The Seaside, Flat And Yet Emphatic, Like The Sound Of Gunshots Heard At A Distance.