Almost seventy years later I remember clearly how the magic of translating the words in books into images enriched my life, breaking the barriers of time and space...

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When I thought I was going to lose my mind in the face of so much suffering. This is how I discovered that a human being cannot live without believing.

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Writers are the exorcists of their own demons.

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Memory is a snare, pure and simple; it alters, it subtly rearranges the past to fit the present.

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Science is still only a candle glimmering in a great pitch-dark cavern.

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He felt immense tenderness for her. He was sure that he would always love her, for my happiness and also my misfortune.

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No matter how ephemeral it is, a novel is something, while despair is nothing.

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Don't ask me why, because I'm not even going to tell you dead. I'm never going to tell you that I love you even if she loves you.

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But what do I have? The things I'm told and the things I tell, that's all. And as far as I know, that never yet made anyone fly.

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It is rare and almost impossible for a novel to have only one narrator.

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