The writer is always to some extent in exile, wherever he is, because he is somehow outside, separated from others there is always a distance.

Winter hurled more wind and rain at the city than it ever had before. Clouds dashed about in all directions emptying their thunder, hail and rain. The horizon was choked in fog.

It was only a phrase that went from mouth to mouth and was never quite swallowed.

Shiny musical instruments wailed, their mouths open like lilies.

Can a country's people be better than its planes?

Who in the world has not yearned for a loved one, has never said, If only he or she could come back just once, just one more time...? Despite the fact that it can never happen, never ever. Surely this is the saddest thing about our mortal world, and its sadness will go on shrouding human life like a blanket of fog until its final extinction.

A mountaineer’s house, before being his home and the home of his family, is the home of God and of guests.

Can one move an empire as if it were a house?

The days were heavy and sticky. All identical, one the same as the other. Soon they would even get rid of their one remaining distinction, the shell of their names: Monday, Tuesday, Thursday.

I had three choices: to conform to my own beliefs, which meant death complete silence, which meant another kind of death to pay a tribute, a bribe. I chose the third solution by writing The Long Winter.

Dictatorship and authentic literature are incompatible... The writer is the natural enemy of dictatorship.

And everything would be different, different.