Our age has need of violence," he writes. And he is violence.

Idealism is the death of the body and the imagination. All but freedom, utter freedom, is death

There is no denying that we are suffering from a collective neurosis and the novel which does not face this is not a novel of our time.

When I don't write, I feel my world shrink. I lose my fire, my color.

I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.

The one who travels like a lover searching for a new passion is suddenly blessed with new eyes, new ears, new senses.

I cannot concentrate all my friendship on any single one of my friends because no one is complete enough in himself.