Novelists Tell That Piece Of Truth Hidden

There Is No Language Without Deceit.

Everything Can Change, But Not The Language That We Carry Inside Us, Like A World More Exclusive And Final Than One's Mother's Womb.

The More One Was Lost In Unfamiliar Quarters Of Distant Cities, The More One Understood The Other Cities He Had Crossed To Arrive There.

It's Better Not To Know Authors Personally, Because The Real Person Never Corresponds To The Image You Form Of Him From Reading His Books.

A Writer's Work Has To Take Account Of Many Rhythms: Vulcan's And Mercury's, A Message Of Urgency Obtained By Dint Of Patient And Meticulous Adjustments And An Intuition So Instantaneous That, When Formulated, It Acquires The Finality Of Something That Could Never Have Been Otherwise. But It Is Also The Rhythm Of Time That Passes With No Other Aim Than To Let Feelings And Thoughts Settle Down, Mature, And Shed All Impatience Or Ephemeral Contingency.