There's something romantic about it, of course, in the way only other people's lives can be.

But the ground shakes, as if something's trying to push up from below, and I think of other people's mothers shaking out their duvets or even God shaking out the fabric of space-time.

I hate the honesty of the moring; the time before your consiousness switches on the light and gets rid of all the nasty shadows.

Nothing means anything but you still have to follow the rules.

You can't do science in a novel, but you can do philosophy. Or, if you're really lucky, you can manage to pose a question in such a way that other people will take it on.