Honestly, I Don't Understand Why People Get

I Find The Public Passion For Justice Quite Boring And Artificial.

He Liked The Fact That Venice Had No Cars. It Made The City Human. The Streets Were Like Veins, He Thought, And The People Were The Blood, Circulating Everywhere.

I Should Love To Do A Novel, About One Abnormal Character Seeing Present-day Life, Very Ordinary Life, Yet Arresting Through It, Abnormality, Until At The End The Reader Sees, And With Little Reluctance, That He Is Not Abnormal At All, And That The Main Character Might As Well Be Himself.

What Was It To Love Someone, What Was Love Exactly, And Why Did It End Or Not End? Those Were The Real Questions, And Who Could Answer Them?

Honesty, For Me, Is Usually The Worst Policy Imaginable.