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

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

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.

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.

If each one of us could make just one other happy, the whole world would know happiness.

The fact that we are I don't know how many millions of people, yet communication, complete communication, is completely impossible between two of those people, is to me one of the biggest tragic themes in the world