The rain was still crashing down, angrily machine-gunning the large windows; it poured through the gutters up in the tower and funneled along the flat roof, sounding like footsteps on the ceiling.
Are you not tempted to create a story for which men and women would live and die, for which they would be capable of killing and allowing them to be killed, of sacrificing and condemning themselves, of handling over their souls?
Man is a moral animal abandoned in an amoral universe and condemned to a finite existence with no other prupose than to perpetuate the natural cycle of the species.
I like to believe that storytelling transcends age limitations.
People only disappear when they have somewhere to go.
While you’re working, you don’t have to look life in the eye.
Truth is, only the useless get to the top in this country.
Sometimes feeling and thinking are one and the same.
The wider the author’s arsenal of tools and the better technically equipped the storyteller is, the better the tale will be.
That’s what happens when people reach old age; nobody remembers they’ve been bastards too.
Those were the words she wanted to hear and she finally surrendered to the temptation of believing them.
Everything in life in nonsense. it’s just a question of persepctive.
The truth is what hurts.
Does the madman know he is mad? Or are the madmen those who insist o. Convincing him of his unreason in order to safeguard their own idea of reality?
Madmen always think it’s the others who are mad.
I leafed through the pages, inhaling the enchanted scent of promise that comes with all new books, and stopped to read the start of a sentence that caught my eye.
Deep down we’ve never been who we think we once were, and we only remember what never happened.
Everything can be forgiven in this world, save telling the truth.
Where he had failed, I would triumph. Where he had lost his way, I would find the path out of the labyrinth.
The world’s very small when you don’t have anywhere to go.
In fact I don’t think of literature, or music, or any art form as having a nationality. Where you’re born is simply an accident of fate. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be more interested in say, Dickens, than in an author from Barcelona simply because I wasn’t born in the UK. I do not have an ethno-centric view of things, much less of literature. Books hold no passports. There’s only one true literary tradition: the human.