I'm A Bit Like A Sponge. When

It Was Night And I Could See A Large And Calm Lake, Reflecting The Moon. Black Mountains Rose Around It. I Arrived From Between Two Of These Mountains, I Looked At The Lake And The Moon, And That Was It, Nothing Else Happened.

And Boucard Desisted, Probably Because Like Everyone Else He Was Deeply Impressed By This Man Who Had Laid All Ghosts, Who Had Lost All Shadows, And Who Stared You In The Eyes With Cold Serenity.

The Fact That We Are I Don't Know How Many Millions Of People, Yet Communication, Complete Communication, Is Completely Impossible Between Two Of Those People, Is To Me One Of The Biggest Tragic Themes In The World

A Novelist Is A Man Who Doesn't Like His Mother.

I Write Fast, Because I Have Not The Brains To Write Slow.