He felt immense tenderness for her. He was sure that he would always love her, for my happiness and also my misfortune.

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Don't ask me why, because I'm not even going to tell you dead. I'm never going to tell you that I love you even if she loves you.

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But what do I have? The things I'm told and the things I tell, that's all. And as far as I know, that never yet made anyone fly.

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You cannot teach creativity—how to become a good writer. But you can help a young writer discover within himself what kind of writer he would like to be.” Mario Vargas Llosa.

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Memory is a snare, pure and simple; it alters, it subtly rearranges the past to fit the present.

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Lies crushed day and night become truths.

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It is easier to imagine the death of one person than that of a hundred or a thousand... Multiplied, suffering becomes abstract. It is not easy to be moved by abstract things.

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It is rare and almost impossible for a novel to have only one narrator.

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No matter how ephemeral it is, a novel is something, while despair is nothing.

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Writers are the exorcists of their own demons.

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