There is a very fine line between loving life and being greedy for it.
I come from a long line of revolutionaries.
I love form, but I’m not interested in forms. I’ve never written a sonnet or villanelle or sestina or any of that. For me, it’s a kind of line. It’s a rhythm. It’s something musical.
Poetry seems to sink into us the way prose doesn’t. I can still quote verses I learned when I was very young, but I have trouble remembering one line of a novel I just finished reading.
One way to find food for thought is to use the fork in the road, the bifurcation that marks the place of emergence in which a new line of development begins to branch off.
There aren’t many people who really put their life on the line for human freedom.
Every New Year is the direct descendant, isn’t it, of a long line of proven criminals?
We have to stop this violence. We have to make the political nature of the violence clear, that the violence we experience in our own homes is not a personal family matter, it’s a public and political problem. It’s a way that women are kept in line, kept in our places.
It was only after five years in the army, when I was having to do a very boring job in a very boring place, that I thought: ‘Why not try writing a novel?’ partly out of youthful arrogance and partly because there had been a long line of writers in my mother’s family.
Any newspaper, from the first line to the last, is nothing but a web of horrors, I cannot understand how an innocent hand can touch a newspaper without convulsing in disgust.