The writer is always to some extent in exile, wherever he is, because he is somehow outside, separated from others; there is always a distance.

The writer is always to some extent in exile, wherever he is, because he is somehow outside, separated from others; there is always a distance.

The days were heavy and sticky. All identical, one the same as the other. Soon they would even get rid of their one remaining distinction, the shell of their names: Monday, Tuesday, Thursday.

I could not understand how people could not like something as beautiful as the aerodrome. But I had lately become convinced that in general people were pretty boring. They liked to moan for hours on end about how hard it was to make ends meet, about the money they owed, the price of food, and other similar worries, but the minute some more brilliant or attractive subject come up, they were struck deaf.

Can one move an empire as if it were a house?

And everything would be different, different.

If an animal has to be sacrificed when a new bridge is built, what will it take to build a whole new world?