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

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

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

I write fast, because I have not the brains to write slow.

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.

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

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