“There are sores which slowly erode the mind in solitude like a kind of canker.”

“In life there are certain sores that, like a canker, gnaw at the soul in solitude and diminish it.”

“I write only for my shadow which is cast on the wall in front of the light. I must introduce myself to it.”

“A story is only an outlet for frustrated aspirations, for aspirations which the story-teller conceives in accordance with a limited stock of spiritual resources inherited from previous generations.”

“Ugh! How many stories about love, copulation, marriage and death already exist, not one of which tells the truth! How sick I am of well-constructed plots and brilliant writing!”

“The sun, like a golden knife, was steadily paring away the edge of the shade beside the walls.The streets were enclosed between old, whitewashed walls. Everywhere were peace and stillness, as though all the elements were obeying the sacred law of calm and silence imposed by the blazing heat. It seemed as though mystery was everywhere and my lungs hardly dared to inhale the air.”

“در زندگی زخمهايی هست که مثل خوره روح را آهسته در انزوا می خوردو می تراشد.اين دردها را نمی شود به کسی اظهار کرد، چون عموما عادت دارند که ايندردهای باورنکردنی را جزو اتفاقات و پيش آمدهای نادر و عجيب بشمارندو اگر کسی بگويد يا بنويسد، مردم بر سبيل عقايد جاری و عقايد خودشانسعی می کنند آنرا با لبخند شکاک و تمسخر آميز تلقی بکنند”