Trotsky rises to give me his hand, then sits at his desk, gently allowing his regard to light on my person.

I have always tried to write in a simple way, using down-to-earth and not abstract words.

It was night and I could see a large and calm lake, reflecting the moon. Black mountains rose around it. I arrived from between two of these mountains, I looked at the lake and the moon, and that was it, nothing else happened.

I saw Mussolini tirelessly contemplate a parade of thousands of young men.

Of course, I also gave him the ineffable pleasures of pipe smoking. And no children, because when this character was created I did not yet have the four children I later had. I must add I also gave him a certain taste for food.

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.

Trotsky rises to give me his hand, then sits at his desk, gently allowing his regard to light on my person.

I adore life but I don’t fear death. I just prefer to die as late as possible.

Writing is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness.

The lake and the mountains have become my landscape, my real world.

One of them, for example, which will probably haunt me more than any other is the problem of communication.