Life is a state of mind.

I always have a sense of trembling, but so does a compass, after all.

Gatherings and, simultaneously, loneliness are the conditions of a writer's life.

She seemed to belong to that pagan, primitive kingdom of birds and forests where everything was infinitely abundant, wild, blooming, and royal in its perpetual decay, death, and rebirth; illicit and clashing with the human world.

The planned sit-down reception is an artificial forum where one is presented with a limited number of persons with whom he can hold a conversation.

I write for a certain sphere of readers in the United States who on average watch seven and a half hours of multichannel television per day.

All my father saw was what he wanted to see.