She Had A Laugh That Hinted It

So The Books For The Englishman, As He Listened Intently Or Not, Had Gaps Of Plot Like Sections Of A Road Washed Out By Storms, Missing Incidents As If Locusts Had Consumed A Section Of Tapestry, As If Plaster Loosened By The Bombing Had Fallen Away From A Mural At Night.

For We Live With Those Retrievals From Childhood That Coalesce And Echo Throughout Our Lives, The Way Shattered Pieces Of Glass In A Kaleidoscope Reappear In New Forms And Are Songlike In Their Refrains And Rhymes, Making Up A Single Monologue. We Live Permanently In The Recurrence Of Our Own Stories, Whatever Story We Tell.

When I Write My Novels I Don't Really Have A Huge Plan Beforehand; I Don't Have The Whole Plot And Architecture, So The Story Is Sort Of Discovered As I Write It.

It Doubles Your Perception, To Write From The Point Of View Of Someone You're Not.

When You're Writing, It's As If You're Within A Kind Of Closed World.