I feel that I am a scholar who only with the left hand writes novels.

What we honor as prudence in our elders is simply panic in action.

It comes down to a question of attention: it's difficult to use the Net distractedly, unlike the television or the radio.

Thus we have on stage two men, each of whom knows nothing of what he believes the other knows, and to deceive each other reciprocally both speak in allusions, each of the two hoping (in vain) that the other holds the key to his puzzle.

My collection of rare books concerns only books that don't tell the truth.

Thus I rediscovered what writers have always known (and have told us again and again): books always speak of other books, and every story tells a story that has already been told.

There are no stories without meaning. And I am one of those men who can find it even when others fail to see it. Afterwards the story becomes the book of the living, like a blaring trumpet that raises from the tomb those who have been dust for centuries.