I saw Mussolini tirelessly contemplate a parade of thousands of young men.

We are all potentially characters in a novel--with the difference that characters in a novel really get to live their lives to the full.

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.

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.

I have always tried to write in a simple way, using down-to-earth and not abstract words.

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

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