She regarded books as the emblems of secret brotherhood. A man with this sort of library couldn't possibly hurt her.

To rebel against being born a woman seemed as foolish to her as to take pride in it.

Nothing requires a greater effort of thought than arguments to justify the rule of non-thought.

To ensure that the self doesn't shrink, to see that it holds on to its volume, memories have to be watered like potted flowers, and the watering calls for regular contact with the witnesses of the past, that is to say, with friends.

Anyone who thinks that the Communist regimes of Central Europe are exclusively the work of criminals is overlooking a basic truth: The criminal regimes were made not by criminals but by enthusiasts convinced they had discovered the only road to paradise. They defended that road so valiantly that they were forced to execute many people. Later it became clear that there was no paradise, that the enthusiasts were therefore murderers.

The stupidity of people comes from having an answer for everything. The wisdom of the novel comes from having a question for everything. The novelist teaches the reader to comprehend the world as a question. There is wisdom and tolerance in that attitude. In a world built on sacrosanct certainties the novel is dead.

In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the guillotine.