The novelist teaches the reader to comprehend the world as a question. There is wisdom and tolerance in that attitude. In a world built on sacrosanct certainties the novel is dead.
I am incapable of speaking of myself and of my life and the states of my soul, I am discreet to an almost pathological degree, and there is nothing I can do against that.
To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring - it was peace.
The worth of a human being lies in the ability to extend oneself, to go outside oneself, to exist in and for other people.
The stupidity of people comes from having an answer for everything. The wisdom of the novel comes from having a question for everything.
