I am attracted to fantastic writing, and fantastic reading, of course. But I think things that we call fantastic may be real, in the sense of being real symbols.

In all fiction, when a man is faced with alternatives he chooses one at the expense of others.

When writers die they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation.

Two aesthetics exist: the passive aesthetic of mirrors and the active aesthetic of prisms. Guided by the former, art turns into a copy of the environment's objectivity or the individual's psychic history. Guided by the latter, art is redeemed, makes the world into its instrument, and forges, beyond spatial and temporal prisons, a personal vision.

I don't think there's any essential difference, at least for me, between writing poetry and writing prose.

It's a shame that we have to choose between two such second-rate countries as the USSR and the USA.

As a boy, I used to marvel that the letters in a closed book did not get scrambled and lost overnight.