Trotsky rises to give me his hand, then sits at his desk, gently allowing his regard to light on my person.

The lake and the mountains have become my landscape, my real world.

It was night and I could see a large and calm lake, reflecting the moon. Black mountains rose around it. I arrived from between two of these mountains, I looked at the lake and the moon, and that was it, nothing else happened.

I'm a bit like a sponge. When I'm not writing I absorb life like water. When I write I squeeze the sponge a little - and out comes, not water but ink.

Madame....gloatingly savored her words as earlier she had savored her pig's trotter.

Writing is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness. I don't think an artist can ever be happy.

I adore life but I dont fear death. I just prefer to die as late as possible.