On sorrow floats laughter.

I have often supported Israel, I have often visited the country and want the country to exist and at last find peace with its neighbours.

...I remain restless and dissatisfied; what I knot with my right hand, I undo with my left, what my left hand creates, my right fist shatters

An empty bus hurtles through the starry night Perhaps the driver is singing and happy because he sings.

As a child I was a great liar. Fortunately my mother liked my lies. I promised her marvelous things.

The human head is bigger than the globe. It conceives itself as containing more. It can think and rethink itself and ourselves from any desired point outside the gravitational pull of the earth. It starts by writing one thing and later reads itself as something else. The human head is monstrous.

So I have no grounds to complain; on the contrary, writers should consider the condition of permanent controversiality to be invigorating, part of the risk envolved in choosing the profesión. It is a fact of life that writers have always and with due consideration and great pleasure spit in the soup of the high and mighty. That is what makes the history of literature analogous to the development and refinement of censorship.