I like to buy books for the kids in my family. I guess that’s why they call me the ‘mean’ aunt.

A lie of invention, a lie about yourself, should not be called a lie. It needs a different word.

There’s lots of things that can’t make it in the world that are worth making. There are lots of great artists who never make it, there are lots of great writers who don’t get published – is it still worthwhile? Aren’t we glad people are still doing it?

And if I am comfortable with it, why do I still call it loneliness? Because – and I think somehow she would understand this – you can have and recognize a sadness in your alienation and in other people’s alienation and still not long to be around anyone. I think that if you wonder about other people’s loneliness, or contemplate it at all, you’ve got a real leg up on being comfortable on your own.

That was one of the reasons I became a writer – I never really had that many friends. I would read a lot, and listen to music. And that was my life.

I always think the novelist should go to the culture’s dark places and poke around. Pose a lot of hard questions.

I don’t have a lot of skills, but one thing I can do is, I can compartmentalize. I can make that a little world that I can go back to, so I can be a waitress, or I can be a teacher, and then go and work on my book.

In order to be a living, breathing thing, a novel has to be failed in some kind of way. Or at least that’s how I keep writing them.

A good novel should be deeply unsettling – its satisfactions should come from its authenticity and its formal coherence. We must feel something crucial is at stake.

Tell me it’s forbidden, unthinkable, and that’s where I want to go. Because the chances are it’s complicated, and the complications are meaningful.