Here. Where I am anonymous and alone in a white room with no history and no parading. So I can make something unknown in the shape of this room. Where I am King of Corners.
The trouble with all of us is we are where we shouldn’t be.
When I write my novels I don’t really have a huge plan beforehand; I don’t have the whole plot and architecture, so the story is sort of discovered as I write it.
What night gave Rafael was a formlessness in which everything had a purpose. As if darkness had a hidden musical language.
Jung was absolutely right about one thing. We are occupied by gods. The mistake is to identify with the god occupying you.
So we came to understand that small and important thing, that our lives could be large with interesting strangers who would pass us without any personal involvement.
I am someone who has a cold heart. If I am beside a great grief I throw barriers up so the loss cannot go too deep or too far. There is a wall instantly in place, and it will not fall.
What began it all was the bright bone of a dream I could hardly hold onto.
Sadness is very close to hate.
Research can be a big clunker. It’s difficult to know how you can make the historical light.
Right now, I have no idea what I will write or if I will write again.
The past is still, for us, a place that is not safely settled.
Truth, at the wrong time, can be dangerous.
I am not in love with him, I am in love with ghosts. So is he, he’s in love with ghosts.
How can you smile as though your whole life hasn’t capsized.
The last three books are much more a case of a moment of history, what happened almost by accident or coincidence, like being in the same elevator or lifeboat.
It’s why you create characters: so you can argue with yourself.
Most of the time in our world, truth is just opinion.
I see the poem or the novel ending with an open door.
Half a page – and the morning is already ancient.