The Place Smelled Of Fairgrounds, Of Lazy

Writing Is Not A Profession But A Vocation Of Unhappiness. I Don't Think An Artist Can Ever Be Happy.

I Would Like To Carve My Novel In A Piece Of Wood. My Characters—i Would Like To Have Them Heavier, More Three-dimensional ... My Characters Have A Profession, Have Characteristics; You Know Their Age, Their Family Situation, And Everything. But I Try To Make Each One Of Those Characters Heavy, Like A Statue, And To Be The Brother Of Everybody In The World.

I Saw Mussolini Tirelessly Contemplate A Parade Of Thousands Of Young Men.

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