As it unfolded, the structure of the story began to remind me of one of those Russian dolls that contain innumerable ever-smaller dolls within. Step by step the narrative split into a thousand stories, as if it had entered a gallery of mirrors, its identity fragmented into endless reflections.

A story is a letter that the author writes to himself, to tell himself things that he would be unable to discover otherwise.

Few things leave a deeper mark on the reader, than the first book that finds its way to his heart.

There are two things in life you cannot choose. The first is your enemies; the second your family. Sometimes the difference between them is hard to see, but in the end time will show you that the cards you have been dealt could always have been worse.

When everyone is determined to present someone as a monster, there are two possibilities: either he’s a saint or they themselves are not telling the whole story.

Books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside you.

Paris is the only city in the world where starving to death is still considered an art.