Eden, paradise - all the best gardens are imaginary.
In America time was gold; in Bangladesh, corrugated tin.
I wasn't sitting around years ago thinking I really want to write a novel.
I'm kind of a mash-up of taste - Graham Greene and Jane Austen; W.G. Sebald and Alice Munro.
Perhaps this was the secret to being at peace: want nothing but what is given to you.
As a novelist, you deepen your characters as you go, adding layers. As a reporter, you try to peel layers away: observing subjects enough to get beneath the surface, re-questioning a source to find the facts. But these processes aren't so different.
As a reporter you tend to seek coherence from your subject or your source - it all needs to add up and make sense. In truth, in reality, there's often a great deal of murkiness and muddiness, confusion and contradiction.
Fiction just has a lot more room for ambivalence and internal conflict, contradiction, and for me that sums up so much of what people felt after 9/11 - confusion even. And I think that's hard to capture in journalism.
Jealousy clings to love's underside like bats to a bridge.
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