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In the best fiction, there exists a palpable sense of discovery.

Be honest. Writing is about honesty, and articulating that honesty.

Be honest. Writing is about honesty, and articulating that honesty.

It’s wrong to say the lightning is pink is nothing other than to say it’s not.

“A book is an ax,” Franz Kafka once said, “for the frozen sea within.”

A goddam mean big sonofabitch boar rooted me in the stomach.

What can go heartbreakingly wrong, and what would you do?

The library is inhabited by spirits that come out of the pages at night.

“I love you” is always a quotation. You did not say it first.

Nothing happened to him? Why, genius had happened to him!

You quickly find nothing interests people so much as themselves.

If you’re not having fun, then there isn’t a big impetus to stay alive.

There are certain defects which well mounted glitter like virtue itself.

A letter is like a poem, showing the marks of an unwilling composer.

“What would Toby do?” is a question that often appears in my mind.

The future of the book began to appear among imaginary woods.

They’re still there since they never grew old. The story is never finished.

Love’s not all that fun, but it saves you. And you should be saved.

I usually get my best writing done at night or at the close of day.

How does he do it? I’ve been trying to figure this out for the past decade.

The story of racism does not simply happen to people of color.

I’m a big fan of then. A novel needs a lot of thens.

I wish I could tell her that we aren’t supposed to know why we’re here.

I once heard in a sermon, “Choose the important over the urgent.”

One of my stories was rejected by a journal as “theatrical and self-limiting.”

In real life, my favorite character, so to speak, is Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

Love enlarges. What you put out into the world, you get back tenfold.

Art doesn’t conform to a capitalist’s ratio of productivity to time.

The Great Gatsby had an awful, detrimental effect on me.