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.

I'm a bit like a sponge. When I'm not writing I absorb life like water. When I write I squeeze the sponge a little - and out comes, not water but ink.

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.

Madame....gloatingly savored her words as earlier she had savored her pig's trotter.

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

I am at home everywhere, and nowhere. I am never a stranger and I never quite belong.

For 30 years I have tried to make it understood that there are no criminals.