Argentine political life is like the life of an ant community or an African forest tribe: full of events, full of crisis and deaths, but life is always cyclical, and the year ends as it begins.

It was a good place for getting lost in, a city no one ever knew, a city explored from the neutral heart outward, until after many years, it defined itself into a jumble of clearings separated by stretches of the unknown, through which the narrowest of paths had been cut.

What matters in the end in literature, what is always there, is the truly good. And- though played out forms can throw up miraculous sports like The Importance of Being Earnest or Decline and Fall- what is good is always what is new, in both form and content. What is good forgets whatever models it might have had, and is unexpected; we have to catch it on the wing.

You can't deny what you've learned; you can't deny your travels; you can't deny the nature of your life.

If writers just sit and talk about oppression, they are not going to do much writing.

We cannot understand all the traits we have inherited. Sometimes we can be strangers to ourselves.

The world is what it is; men who are nothing, who allow themselves to become nothing, have no place in it.