An entire life spent reading would have fulfilled my every desire; I already knew that at the age of seven. The texture of the world is painful, inadequate; unalterable, or so it seems to me. Really, I believe that an entire life spent reading would have suited me best. Such a life has not been granted me.

I'd say that the question whether love still exists plays the same role in my novels as the question of God's existence in Dostoevsky.

Love binds, and it binds forever. Good binds while evil unravels. Separation is another word for evil; it is also another word for deceit.

Those who think they know me are simply lacking in information.

Father died last year. I don't subscribe to the theory by which we only become truly adult when our parents die; we never become truly adult.

I think that if I am notorious, it is because other people have decided that this is how I should be.

I admit that invective is one of my pleasures. This only brings me problems in life, but that's it. I attack, I insult. I have a gift for that, for insults, for provocation. So I am tempted to use it.