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

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

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

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'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.

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

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