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.

When we think about the present, we veer wildly between the belief in chance and the evidence in favour of determinism. When we think about the past, however, it seems obvious that everything happened in the way that it was intended.

In my own writing, I think of myself as a realist who exaggerates a little.

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.

Those who love life do not read. Nor do they go to the movies, actually. No matter what might be said, access to the artistic universe is more or less entirely the preserve of those who are a little fed up with the world.

When a country is strong... it accepts any dose of pessimism from its writers.

Why am I popular? I don't know. Is it a mistake? I should think it's a mistake somewhere.