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.

And everything would be different, different.

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.

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

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.

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.

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 one move an empire as if it were a house?

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

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.