Everything Shrinks. Individual Character. Friendships. Language. Sensibility.

She Hopes For Nothing Except Fine Weather And A Resolution. She Wants To End Properly, Like A Good Sentence.

I Recognize Myself To Be An Intensely Naive Person. Most Novelists Are, Despite Frequent Pretensions To Deep Socio-political Insight.

You Become A Different Writer When You Approach A Short Story. When Things Are Not Always Having To Represent Other Things, You Find Real Human Beings Begin To Cautiously Appear On Your Pages.

I Do My Best Work Under Pressure, So I’ll Nick An Artery, And My Husband Isn’t Allowed To Stanch The Bleeding Till I’ve Banged Out A Chapter.

English, As A Subject, Never Really Got Over Its Upstart Nature. It Tries To Bulk Itself Up With Hopeless Jargon And Specious Complexity, Tries To Imitate Subjects It Can Never Be.