You Take A Book, And What Can

As A Child, I Never Wanted My Parents To Be Unhappy, Which Meant That I Would Always Contemplate What Would Make Them Happy.

Making Up Characters And Places And Plots, Unlike Fixing Your Plumbing Or Doing Dishes, Is Anything But Practical Or Rational. I Write What Needs To Be Written The Way That Seems Genuinely Right.

I'm Not Saying That I Don't Experience People In Life As Evil, But Writing Is Not A Place Of Alienation; Writing Is The Place Where We Can Try To Be Human.

To What Extent Does Anybody Control His Destiny? Life Is Very Much Like Falling Of The Edge Of A Cliff. You Have Complete Freedom To Make All The Choices You Want To Take On Your Way Down. My Characters Choose To Yearn And Not Lose Hope Even When The Odds Are Completely Against Them. It Doesn't Make The Landing At The End Of That Fall Any Less Painful But, Somehow, It Helps Them Keep A Little Dignity Their Bone Broken Body.

And She Loved A Man Who Was Made Out Of Nothing. A Few Hours Without Him And Right Away She’d Be Missing Him With Her Whole Body, Sitting In Her Office Surrounded By Polyethylene And Concrete And Thinking Of Him. And Every Time She’d Boil Water For Coffee In Her Ground-floor Office, She’d Let The Steam Cover Her Face, Imagining It Was Him Stroking Her Cheeks, Her Eyelids And She’d Wait For The Day To Be Over, So She Could Go To Her Apartment Building, Climb The Flight Of Stairs, Turn The Key In The Door, And Find Him Waiting For Her, Naked And Still Between The Sheets Of Her Empty Bed.