A Tree Weeps When Cut

I Don't Think It Is Worth Explaining How A Character's Nose Or Chin Looks. It Is My Feeling That Readers Will Prefer To Construct, Little By Little, Their Own Character—the Author Will Do Well To Entrust The Reader With This Part Of The Work.

I Do Not Just Write, I Write What I Am. If There Is A Secret, Perhaps That Is It.

People Might Ask Me, What Do You Propose Instead? I Propose Nothing. I Am A Mere Novelist, I Just Write About The World As I See It. It Is Not My Job To Transform It. I Cannot Transform It All By Myself, And I Wouldn't Even Know How To. I Limit Myself To Saying What I Believe The World To Be.

We Are Finally Living In Plato's Cave, If We Consider How Those Who Were Imprisoned Within The Cave - Who Could Do Nothing But Watch Those Shadows Passing On The Back Wall - Were Convinced That Those Shadows Were Their One And Only Reality. I See A Profound Similarity To All This In The Epoch We're Now Living In. We No Longer Live Simply Through Images: We Live Through Images That Don't Even Exist, Which Are The Result Not Of Physical Projection But Of Pure Virtuality.

Being Fired Was The Best Luck Of My Life. It Made Me Stop And Reflect. It Was The Birth Of My Life As A Writer.