the translator, a lonely sort of acrobat, becomes confused in a labyrinth of paradox, or climbs a pyramid of dependent clauses and has to invent a way down from it in his own language.

My stories are sometimes closer to poems or meditations, but often there is at least a little narrative in them.

I don’t like to hurt people’s feelings, and I don’t like to knock other writers as a matter of principle.

I attempt all day, at work, not to think about what lies ahead, but this costs me so much effort that there is nothing left for my work. I handle telephone calls so badly that after a while the switchboard operator refuses to connect me. So I had better say to myself, Go ahead and polish the silverware beautifully, then lay it out ready on the sideboard and be done with it. Because I polish it in my mind all day long—this is what torments me (and doesn't clean the silver).

When I'm trying a new form- trying to do something I'm not used to doing, which was true of the novel.

There seemed to be three choices: to give up trying to love anyone, to stop being selfish, or to learn to love a person while continuing to be selfish.

I never dream in French, but certain French words seem better or more fun than English words - like 'pois chiches' for chick peas!