Loneliness and hunger were my fortunes of creation.

No person writes to win awards.

I write about my region, the countryside in which I grew up.

A writer should always bravely face life, risking death and mutilation in order to dethrone an emperor.

I think writers write for their consciences, they write for their own true audiences, for their souls.

The sun, a red wheel, was sinking slowly in the west. Besides being spectacularly beautiful, the early-summer sunset was exceedingly soft and gentle: black mulberry leaves turned as red as roses; pristine white acacia petals shed an enshrouding pale-green aura. Mild evening breezes made both the mulberry leaves and the acacia petals dance and whirl, filling the woods with a soft rustle.

I know what real courage is, and I understand true compassion.