I have rewritten — often several times — every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers.

It is a singular reaction, this sitting still and writing, writing, writing, or ruminating at length, which is much the same, really.

Play! Invent the world! Invent reality!

Remembrance, like Rembrandt, is dark but festive. Remembered ones dress up for the occasion and sit still. Memory is a photo-studio de luxe on an infinite Fifth Power Avenue.

And yet I am happy. Yes, happy. I swear. I swear that I am happy...What does it matter that I am a bit cheap, a bit foul, and that no one appreciates all the remarkable things about me-my fantasy, my erudition, my literary gift...I am happy that I can gaze at myself, for any man is absorbing-yes, really absorbing! ... I am happy-yes, happy!

My mind speaks English, my heart speaks Russian, and my ear prefers French.

Imagination without knowledge leads no farther than the back yard of primitive art, the child's scrawl on the fence, and the crank's message in the market place. Art is never simple.