The Novel Is Resilient, And So Are

Fictional Characters Are Made Of Words, Not Flesh; They Do Not Have Free Will, They Do Not Exercise Volition. They Are Easily Born, And As Easily Killed Off.

The First Thought That Occurred To Me, That Night When I Heard The Chairman Of The Jury Announce My Name, Was, Just Think How Many People Hate Me At This Moment. Naturally, I Wanted To Annoy Those People Even Further By Being Arrogant.

Sleep Is Uncanny, I Have Always Found It So, A Nightly Dress-rehearsal For Being Dead.

Enormous Morning, Ponderous, Meticulous; Gray Light Streaking Each Bare Branch, Each Single Twig, Along One Side, Making Another Tree, Of Glassy Veins.

I Don't Make A Distinction Between Men And Women. To Me They Are Just People.