But everything of value about me is in my books.

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

People come and go all the time; the world has always been in movement.

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

Most people are not really free. They are confined by the niche in the world that they carve out for themselves. They limit themselves to fewer possibilities by the narrowness of their vision.

I am the kind of writer that people think other people are reading.

How could people like these, without words to put to their emotions and passions, manage? They could, at best, only suffer dumbly. Their pains and humiliations would work themselves out in their characters alone: like evil spirits possessing a body, so that the body itself might appear innocent of what it did.