The enslavement, humiliation, torture, and ultimate destruction of thousands upon thousands of human beings for a project for which there was ultimately no purpose is a horror that's very hard to imagine, far less understand.

The monsters demand less of you as a writer because they're probably closer to who you are.

One cannot distinguish between human and non-human acts. One cannot point, one cannot say this man here is a man and that man there is a devil.

A writer has to stand outside the page. It's not for the writer to shed tears onto the pages for these characters. It's not for him to suffer or to laugh or to experience ecstasy or agony in the manner of the characters on the pages.

When forging money, I had always salved my conscience by concluding that I was merely extending the lie of commerce.

Writing is not lying, nor is it theft. It is a journey and search for transparency between one’s words and one’s soul.

What reality was ever made by realists?