For 30 years I have tried to make it understood that there are no criminals.
A novelist is a man who doesn't like his mother.
If each one of us could make just one other happy, the whole world would know happiness.
The lake and the mountains have become my landscape, my real world.
Writing is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness. I don't think an artist can ever be happy.
And Boucard desisted, probably because like everyone else he was deeply impressed by this man who had laid all ghosts, who had lost all shadows, and who stared you in the eyes with cold serenity.