It's A Curious Idea To Reproduce When

I'd Say That The Question Whether Love Still Exists Plays The Same Role In My Novels As The Question Of God's Existence In Dostoevsky.

The Great Advantage Of A Novel Is You Can Put In Whatever Comes Into Your Head - It Has The Same Shape As The Human Brain.

It’s True This World Our Breathing Laboured Inspires Nothing More Than Obvious Disgust A Desire To Flee Without Our Share And No Longer Read The Headlines We Long To Return To Our Ancestral Home Where Our Forebears Once Lived Under An Angel’s Wing We Long To Find That Strange Morality Which Sanctified Life To The End We Crave Something Like Loyalty Like The Embrace Of Mild Addictions Something That Transcends Yet Contains Life We Cannot Live Far From Eternity

In My Own Writing, I Think Of Myself As A Realist Who Exaggerates A Little.

Depressive Lucidity, Usually Described As A Radical Withdrawal From Ordinary Human Concerns, Generally Manifests Itself By A Profound Indifference To Things Which Are Genuinely Of Minor Interest. Thus It Is Possible To Imagine A Depressed Lover, While The Idea Of A Depressed Patriot Seems Frankly Inconceivable.