I do not want to have the feeling of writing for eternity, so to speak.

Work restores humankind and all its attributes to the savage animal condition that was its original intended state.

Literature that keeps employing new linguistic and formal modes of expression to draft a panorama of society as a whole while at the same time exposing it, tearing the masks from its face - for me that would be deserving of an award.

Love points the way. Desire is its ignorant advisor.

The first thing a proprietor learns, and painfully at that, is: Trust is fine, but control is better.

It is not enough ... simply to surrender oneself brainlessly to love, when it knocks at the door, one must also calculate because of later life, which does sometimes follow.

He lies like a book. And he reads a lot of books.

It could draw from a greater reservoir of freedom. The irony could develop an even greater ease.

I do not fight against men, but against the system that is sexist.

Vice is basically the love of failure.

Anna despises two classes of people: first, those who own their own homes and have cars and families, and second, everybody else. Constantly she is on the verge of exploding. With rage. A pool of pure red. The pool is filled with speechlessness that talks away at her nonstop.

Sunday, the day for the language of leisure.

Seek and you shall find the repulsive things you secretly hope to find.

I have the feeling it will influence my future writing to the extent that without any material worries I could develop a greater ease, even lightheartedness, in my writing

As is said about most writers: on the one hand all I ever did from when I was a child was read, and I was a loner, which was furthered by my parents and my upbringing.