In My Own Writing, I

In My Own Writing, I Think Of Myself As A Realist Who Exaggerates A Little.

There Is No Point In Asking Me General Questions Because I Am Always Changing My Mind.

A Source Of Permanent, Accessible Pleasure, Our Genitals Exist. The God Who Created Our Misfortune, Who Made Us Short-lived, Vain And Cruel, Has Also Provided This Form Of Meagre Compensation. If We Couldn't Have Sex From Time To Time, What Would Life Be? A Futile Struggle Against Joints That Stiffen, Caries That Form. All Of Which, Moreover, Is As Uninteresting As Humanly Possible - The Collagen Which Makes Muscles Stiffen, The Appearance Of Microbic Cavities In The Gums.

I Admit That Invective Is One Of My Pleasures. This Only Brings Me Problems In Life, But That's It. I Attack, I Insult. I Have A Gift For That, For Insults, For Provocation. So I Am Tempted To Use It.

Life Is Painful And Disappointing. It Is Useless, Therefore, To Write New Realistic Novels. We Generally Know Where We Stand In Relation To Reality And Don’t Care To Know Any More.