I am a slow worker, but I could have written at least two books more in the time that I have been obliged to spend waiting around public offices and in the back yards of recruiting stations – waiting unnecessarily for unnecessary things.
What is a historian, anyway? It is someone who uses facts to record the development of humanity.
From depicting the past, so goes the suspicion, it is a short step to glorifying the past.
There’s only a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, but there’s no road leading from the ridiculous to the sublime.
After closely examining my conscience, I venture to state that in my historical novels I intended the content to be just as modern and up-to-date as in the contemporary ones.
I should add that it is open to debate whether what we call the writing of history these days is truly scientific.
It is only the strong who are strengthened by suffering; the weak are made weaker.
Both the historian and the novelist view history as the struggle of a tiny minority, able and determined to make judgments, which is up against a vast and densely packed majority of the blind, who are led by their instincts and unable to think for themselves.
An author who sets about to depict events of the past that have run their course is suspected of wishing to avoid the problems of the present day, of being, in other words, a reactionary.
I have always made an effort to render every detail of my reality with the greatest accuracy; but I have never paid attention to whether my presentation of historical facts was an exact one.
Asking the author of historical novels to teach you about history is like expecting the composer of a melody to provide answers about radio transmission.
Ever since my youth it has disturbed me that of the literary works that survived their own epoch, so many dealt with historical rather than contemporary subjects.
The years that had passed had displayed vividly before our eyes the fickleness of human attitudes.
Had I not been thinking always of the ludicrous aspects of my own plight, or of the plight of others, I could not have survived that depressing, degrading experience without spiritual harm.
It was not living, it was vegetation. We longed for death.
I am always thinking of that remark of Theodor Lessing, which I quoted earlier in this book, that history is “the art of giving meaning to the meaningless.
But one should not trust first impulses. Instinct is not always a safe counsellor by any means.
However small we made ourselves, we took space and air from our neighbours. We were a torment to one another.
There were of course exceptions, but on the whole the “intellectuals” among us withstood the hardships of the journey resignedly and patiently. They proved to be tougher, quieter, more uncomplaining than many men from other walks of life who were physically stronger and physically better trained.
It has always been a blessed experience with me after an illness to feel that I was recovering.