Progress Would Be Wonderful -

Mathematics Is The Source Of A Wicked Intellect That, While Making Man The Lord Of The Earth, Also Makes Him The Slave Of The Machine.

... The Novel Is Called Upon Like No Other Art Form To Incorporate The Intellectual Content Of An Age.

True' And 'false' Are The Evasions Of People Who Never Want To Arrive At A Decision. Truth Is Something Without End.

Writing [for The Novelist] Is Not An Activity, But A Condition. That Is Why One Simply Can't Resume The Work When One Has A Job And A Free Half-day. Reading Is The Conveyance Of This Condition.

We Sometimes Have A Flash Of Understanding That Amounts To The Insight Of Genius, And Yet It Slowly Withers, Even In Our Hands - Like A Flower. The Form Remains, But The Colours And The Fragrance Are Gone.