东西
Memory is a tricky thing. It's not always reliable, but it's all we have.
If memories had a smell, it would be the fragrance of camphor, sweet and secure, like clearly remembered happiness, sweet and melancholy, like forgotten sorrow.
The stories are not autobiographical, but they're personal in that way. I seem to know only the things that I've learned. Probably some things through observation, but what I feel I know surely is personal.
I want the reader to feel something is astonishing—not the 'what happens' but the way everything happens.
There is only one real sin, and that is to persuade oneself that the second-best is anything but the second-best.
That is what learning is. You suddenly understand something you've understood all your life, but in a new way.
You wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.