We don't know when our name came into being or how some distant ancestor acquired it. We don't understand our name at all, we don't know its history and yet we bear it with exalted fidelity, we merge with it, we like it, we are ridiculously proud of it as if we had thought it up ourselves in a moment of brilliant inspiration.

The novel is not the author's confession; it is an investigation of human life in the trap the world has become

On the surface, an intelligible lie; underneath, the unintelligible truth.

People derived too much pleasure from seeing their fellow man morally humiliated to spoil that pleasure by hearing out an explanation.

In the realm of totalitarian kitsch, all answers are given in advance and preclude any questions.

I have to lie, if I don't want to take madmen seriously and become a madman myself

Until that time, her betrayals had filled her with excitement and joy, because they opened up new paths to new adventures of betrayal. But what if the paths came to an end? One could betray one's parents, husband, country, love, but when parents, husband, country, and love were gone - what was left to betray?