I was like a social worker for lepers. My clients had a chunk of their body they wanted to give away; for a price I was there to receive it.

Crimes, sins, nightmares, hunks of hair: it was surprising how many of them has something to dispose of. The more I charged, the easier it was for them to breathe freely once more.

I don't want my novel to be like Madame Bovary, finely crafted with the life edited out of it. I want my novel to be like a friend telling me a story -- so we go off on thoughts; that's the way it is.

Long after the bomb falls and you and your good deeds are gone, cockroaches will still be here, prowling the streets like armored cars.

As a writer, I don't think it's my responsibility to make a point. I just write and hope there's someone who'll like it.