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 am at home everywhere, and nowhere. I am never a stranger and I never quite belong.

For 30 years I have tried to make it understood that there are no criminals.

The place smelled of fairgrounds, of lazy crowds, of nights when you stayed out because you couldn't go to bed, and it smelled like New York, of its calm and brutal indifference.

We live in a time when writers do not always have barriers around them

One of them, for example, which will probably haunt me more than any other is the problem of communication.

A novelist is a man who doesn't like his mother.