My Books, At Any Rate, Deserved To

No Country Is So Peaceful As The One That Leads Into Death. Life Arches Above One's Head Like A Bridgespan, And Below It Flows The Water, Carries The Boat, Takes It Further.

And If You Ask Again Whether There Is Any Justice In The World, You'll Have To Be Satisfied With The Reply: Not For The Time Being; At Any Rate, Not Up To This Friday.

The Subject Of The Novel Is Reality Liberated From Soul. The Reader In Complete Independence Presented With A Structured Process:let Him Evaluate It, Not The Author. The Façade Of The Novel Cannot Be Other Than Stone Or Steel, Flashing Electrically Or Dark, But Silent.

The World Is Made Of Sugar And Dirt.

Revolution? Unscrew The Flag-staff, Wrap The Bunting In The Oil Covers, And Put The Thing In The Clothes-chest. Let The Old Lady Bring You Your House-slippers And Untie Your Fiery Red Necktie. You Always Make Revolutions With Your Mugs, Your Republic--nothing But An Industrial Accident.