“The novel is too capacious, inclusive, unruly, and personal for perfection. Too long, sometimes too much like life.”
“Sometimes my mouth is a little too big and a little too open and sounds too much like a sailor.”
“Is life much too long for an immortal?”
“Too long, much too long.”
“You can't really succeed with a novel anyway; they're too big. It's like city planning. You can't plan a perfect city because there's too much going on that you can't take into account. You can, however, write a perfect sentence now and then. I have.”
“Okay, if this is what falling in love feels like, someone please kill me now. (Not literally, overzealousreaders.) But it was all too much—too much emotion, too much happiness, too much longing, perhapstoo much ice cream…”