I find the public passion for justice quite boring and artificial.
And no book, and possibly no painting, when it is finished, is ever exactly like the first dream of it.
Everything human is alien to me.
Honesty, for me, is usually the worst policy imaginable.
One situation – maybe one alone – could drive me to murder: family life, togetherness.
How was it possible to be afraid and in love... The two things did not go together. How was it possible to be afraid, when the two of them grew stronger together every day? And every night. Every night was different, and every morning. Together they possessed a miracle.