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.

Writing is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness. I don't think an artist can ever be happy.

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

It just happened. As though a moment comes when it's both necessary and natural to make a decision that has long since been made.

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

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

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