“...You won't age? I promise you this - your hands will go shiny and transparent and at the slightest bruise they'll bleed...”

“...did you know that in your eyes there are bright flecks of green and orange - and that they are lovely?...”

“...my novels are like life - I never know where they're going until I get to the end...”

“...I remember the oily smoke of a cigarette suspended in a shaft of sunlight - with you, everything was beautiful...”

“...you mean you don't fit characters into a plot? excatly...”

“...don't be afraid of going by a way you've never gone - that's the way we're all going...”

“...a little of this, a little of that - a little of me, a little of you - put it together what do you have? postmodern soup...”