Any sizeable Portuguese town looks like a superstitious bride's finery - something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.

The exile is a singular, whereas refugees tend to be thought of in the mass ... What is implied in these nuances of social standing is the respect we pay to choice. The exile appears to have made a decision, while the refugee is the very image of helplessness.

this is the spirit of the enchantment under which Venice lies, pearly and roseate, like the Sleeping Beauty, changeless throughout the centuries, arrested, while the concrete forest of the modern world grows up around her.

For both writer and reader, the novel is a lonely, physically inactive affair. Only the imagination races.

You can date the evolving life of a mind, like the age of a tree, by the rings of friendship formed by the expanding central trunk.

What I really do is take real plums and put them in an imaginary cake.

Any sizeable Portuguese town looks like a superstitious bride's finery - something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.