In my view, the novelist has no right to express his opinions on the things of this world. In creating, he must imitate God: do his job and then shut up.

May I die like a dog rather than hasten the ripening of a sentence by a single second!

We must laugh and cry, enjoy and suffer, in a word, vibrate to our full capacity … I think that’s what being really human means.

He dreamed of funeral love, but dreams crumble and the tomb abides

Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.

That man has missed something who has never left a brothel at sunrise feeling like throwing himself into the river out of pure disgust.

Maybe happiness too is a metaphor invented on a day of boredom