Lermontov became a soldier, escaping from her grandmother and her troublesome love. He exchanged the pen, which is the key to one's soul, for a pistol, which is the key to the gates of the world.

But isn't it true that an author can write only about himself?

Once the writer in every individual comes to life (and that time is not far off), we are in for an age of universal deafness and lack of understanding.

For a novelist, a given historic situation is an anthropologic laboratory in which he explores his basic question: What is human existence?

As I have pointed out before, characters are not born like people, of woman; they are born of a situation, a sentence, a metaphor containing in a nutshell a basic human possibility that the author thinks no one else has discovered or said something essential about. But isn't it true that an author can write only about himself?

In Irena’s head the alcohol plays a double role: it frees her fantasy, encourages her boldness, makes her sensual, and at the same time it dims her memory. She makes love wildly, lasciviously, and at the same time the curtain of oblivion wraps her lewdness in an all-concealing darkness. As if a poet were writing his greatest poem with ink that instantly disappears.

In any case, it seems to me that all over the world people nowadays prefer to judge rather than to understand, to answer rather than to ask, so that the voice of the novel can hardly be heard over the noisy foolishness of human certainties.

What is a novel if not a trap for catching a hero?

And suddenly he realized that all his life he had done nothing but talk, write, lecture, concoct sentences, search for formulations and amend them, so in the end no words were precise, their meanings were obliterated, their meaning lost, they turned into trash, chaff, dust, sand; prowling through his brain, tearing at his head, they were his insomnia, his illness.