I like a lot of Margaret Atwood, I like much of Alice Munro. Again, if you were to ask me about male writers, there’s often a novel I admire, but not all of their works.

It’s gratifying that it does; I love to give readings.

You put a character out there and you’re in their power. You’re in trouble if they’re in yours.

When we came in she had her chair sideways, without even looking up to know that it was us, that the doctors had said that sitting and staring at the snow was a waste of time; she should get involved in something. She laughed and told us it wasn’t a waste of time. It would be a waste of time just to stare at snowflakes, but she was counting, and even that might be a waste of time, but she was only counting the ones that were just alike.

I wasn’t the sort of person who struck up conversations with strangers.

I don’t write about things that I have the answers to or things that are very close to home. It just wouldn’t be any adventure. It wouldn’t have any vitality.

If you could have a book called My Favorite Six Stories, I don’t think I’d have trouble doing that.

Startled starlings flew up out of the high grass, their black whorl a little tornado that did not touch down and therefore did no damage. They disappeared like a momentary perception above Yancey’s head, fanning out and flying west. Or like the clotted words crammed into a cartoon bubble.

It’s often been said that I’m an extremely depressing, cynical writer. I’ve never known what to make of that.

Adirondacks must sit in those uncomfortable wooden chairs with the seats tilted so deeply backward that your knees sprang up like a ventriloquist’s dummy as the wood pressed into the back of your thighs. Otherwise, why would they be so named?