A novel that does not uncover a hitherto unknown segment of existence is immoral. Knowledge is the novel's only morality.

You can't measure the mutual affection of two human beings by the number of words they exchange.

People fascinated by the idea of progress never suspect that every step forward is also a step on the way to the end.

Cemeteries in Bohemia are like gardens. The graves are covered with grass and colourful flowers. Modest tombstones are lost in the greenery. When the sun goes down, the cemetery sparkles with tiny candles... no matter how brutal life becomes, peace always reigns in the cemetery. Even in wartime, even in Hitler's time, even in Stalin's time.

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.

This is the real and the only reason for friendship: to provide a mirror so the other person can contemplate his image from the past, which, without the eternal blah-blah of memories between pals, would long ago have disappeared.

But if God is gone and man is no longer master, then who is master?