But where was I to start? The world is so vast, I shall start with the country I knew best, my own. But my country is so very large. I had better start with my town. But my town, too, is large. I had best start with my street. No, my home. No, my family. Never mind, I shall start with myself.

The act of writing is for me often nothing more than the secret or conscious desire to carve words on a tombstone: to the memory of a town forever vanished, to the memory of a childhood in exile, to the memory of all those I loved and who, before I could tell them I loved them, went away.

No one is as capable of gratitude as one who has escaped the kingdom of night.

I believe in the story [ of Adam and Eve]. For me, it's a story.

Oh, it is not death that frightens me, but the impossibility of imparting some meaning to my past.

The danger lies in forgetting.

Man walks the moon but his soul remains riveted to earth. Once upon a time it was the opposite.