For a novelist, a given historic situation is an anthropologic laboratory in which he explores his basic question: What is human existence?

Those who consider the Devil to be a partisan of Evil and angels to be warriors for Good accept the demagogy of the angels. Things are clearly more complicated.

Solitude: a sweet absence of looks.

Forgive me," he went on. "For a long time I have had the peculiar habit of not arriving but appearing.

Man reckons with immortality, and forgets to reckon with death.

It does take great maturity to understand that the opinion we are arguing for is merely the hypothesis we favor, necessarily imperfect, probably transitory, which only very limited minds can declare to be a certainty or a truth.

But isn't it true that an author can write only about himself?