Book: Life is like a novel

Why are books needed if they don't bring us back to life, if they can't make us sip it more greedily?

I have the impression that all the novels I have published are cobblestones paving a long path, a path leading to something or someone.

Life itself is an ongoing risk.

Disappointment. Disgust. Impotence. Anger. All these are my internal enemies. I have to keep them in check so they don't take over me.

The beauty of our today depends on what will happen tomorrow.

Occasionally, life surpasses literature in ingenuity.

When I was unhappy, when there was no one to exchange a word with, I had my characters. I knew that some of them were even more unhappy than me. It was far from consolation, more like a sense of brotherhood.

The world has run out of common sense. Not to mention courage.

And those who are below - eat their noodles and not flutter!

You think only about your own petty person, always busy with thoughts about where it will hurt you, where it will bring you down, you care about your insignificant psychological comfort. You never think about others.

Police are everywhere, justice is nowhere.

There is no rule in life to understand others. The history of life is to be mistaken about them again and again, to be mistaken always and with bitterness, to think carefully - and again to be mistaken.

Day and night, seven times a week, I do not know peace. Everyone torments me: my wife, the publisher, the agent, the tax department, the judicial system, journalists. All those who want me to stop eating meat, not flying on planes, put out my cigarette, limit myself to one glass of wine, eat five fruits and vegetables a day.

Wanted to be a writer so you could bully your characters?