If Each One Of Us

For 30 Years I Have Tried To Make It Understood That There Are No Criminals.

The Lake And The Mountains Have Become My Landscape, My Real World.

The Place Smelled Of Fairgrounds, Of Lazy Crowds, Of Nights When You Stayed Out Because You Couldn't Go To Bed, And It Smelled Like New York, Of Its Calm And Brutal Indifference.

Trotsky Rises To Give Me His Hand, Then Sits At His Desk, Gently Allowing His Regard To Light On My Person.

I Would Like To Carve My Novel In A Piece Of Wood. My Characters—i Would Like To Have Them Heavier, More Three-dimensional ... My Characters Have A Profession, Have Characteristics; You Know Their Age, Their Family Situation, And Everything. But I Try To Make Each One Of Those Characters Heavy, Like A Statue, And To Be The Brother Of Everybody In The World.