After the first shock of recognition - a sudden sense of "this is what I'm going to write" - the novel starts to breed by itself; the process goes on solely in the mind, not on paper. I feel a kind of gentle development, an uncurling inside, and I know that the details are there already, that in fact I would see them plainly if I looked closer, but I prefer to wait until what is loosely called inspiration has completed the task for me.

No author has created with less emphasis such pathetic characters as Chekhov has.

Dostoevky's lack of taste, his monotonous dealings with persons suffering with pre-Freudian complexes, the way he has of wallowing in the tragic misadventures of human dignity - all this is difficult to admire.

Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution.

I need you, the reader, to imagine us, for we don't really exist if you don't.

The pleasures of writing correspond exactly to the pleasures of reading

Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?