The novel as we knew it in the nineteenth century was killed off by Proust and Joyce.

The novel as we knew it in the nineteenth century was killed off by Proust and Joyce.

When you aren't sincere you need to pretend, and by pretending you end up believing yourself; that's the basic principle of every faith.

Every true writer is like a bird; he repeats the same song, the same theme, all his life. For me, this theme as always been revolt.

War has become an affair of machines...and soldiers are little more than clever mechanics.

It is what we are forced to do that forms our character, not what we do of our own free will.

The less one notices happiness, the greater it is.