You are at the wheel of your car, waiting at a traffic light, you take the book out of the bag, rip off the transparent wrapping, start reading the first lines. A storm of honking breaks over you....

It was the hour in which objects lose the consistency of shadow that accompanies them during the night and gradually reacquire colors, but seem to cross meanwhile an uncertain limbo, faintly touched, just breathed on by light; the hour in which one is least certain of the world's existence.

We caught him in traffic and got up beside of him, but he got up on the wheel and got it done.

Thoughtful lightness can make frivolity seem dull and heavy.

Without translation, I would be limited to the borders of my own country. The translator is my most important ally. He introduces me to the world.

An exotic birthplace on its own is not informative of anything.