Nobody loved her and she wouldn’t have liked it if they had, she considered love a serious disability.

I guess I'm depressed. I don't know. I can't explain it. Part of it is the irritability of being 84, and part of it is being not as physically strong as I once was. And part of it is my misunderstanding, I think, of what's going on in the world.

Think of anybody - Dostoevsky or Jane Austen - [their work] was always something that now we would call political. So I don't see those separations too much, between what is artistic and what is political. Maybe in painting... no, I don't even believe that.

Home is memory, home is your history, home is where you work. Some people want to abandon it and become truly local. But the questions are all there.

Never did he once consider directing his hatred toward the hunters. Such an emotion would have destroyed him ... His subconscious knew what his min did not guess-that hating them would have consumed him, burned him up like a piece of soft coal, leaving only flakes of ash and a question mark of smoke.

The ability of writers to imagine what is not the self, to familiarize the strange and mystify the familiar, is the test of their power.

What difference do it make if the thing you scared of is real or not?