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.

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

Shiny musical instruments wailed, their mouths open like lilies.

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.

Dictatorship and authentic literature are incompatible... The writer is the natural enemy of dictatorship.

Winter hurled more wind and rain at the city than it ever had before. Clouds dashed about in all directions emptying their thunder, hail and rain. The horizon was choked in fog.