Presents are made for the pleasure of who gives them, not the merits of who receives them.

Literature, at least good literature, is science tempered with the blood of art. Like architecture or music.

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.

Everything in life in nonsense. it's just a question of persepctive

Our world will not die as the result of the bomb, as the papers say, it will die of laughter, of banality, or making a joke of everything, and a lousy joke at that.

You young people never say anything. And us old folks don't know how to stop talking.

We exist as long as somebody remembers us.