Even in Siberia there is happiness.

I am writing a play which I probably will not finish until the end of November. I am writing it with considerable pleasure, though I sin frightfully against the conventions of the stage. It is a comedy with three female parts, six male, four acts, a landscape (view of the lake), lots of talk on literature, little action and tons of love.

People who lead a lonely existence always have something on their minds that they are eager to talk about.

In descriptions of nature one must seize on small details, grouping them so that when the reader closes his eyes he gets a picture.

There will come a time when everybody will know why, for what purpose, there is all this suffering, and there will be no more mysteries. But now we must live ... we must work, just work!

My own experience is that once a story has been written, one has to cross out the beginning and the end. It is there that we authors do most of our lying.

There isn't a Monday that would not cede its place to Tuesday.