There are things than cannot ever occur with any precision. They are too big and too magnificent to be contained in mere facts. They are merely trying to occur, they are checking whether the ground of reality can carry them. And they quickly withdraw, fearing to loose their integrity in the frailty of realization.

Under the imaginary table that separates me from my readers, don’t we secretly clasp each other’s hands?

Even in the depths of sleep, in which he had to satisfy his need for protection and love by curling himself up into a trembling ball, he could not rid himself of the feeling of loneliness and homelessness.

This enraged the other Nazi so much that the next morning he came to our house and he shot my father.

Lifelessness is only a disguise behind which hide unknown forms of life.

And one's wandering proved as sterile and pointless as the excitement produced by a close study of pornographic albums.

Ordinary facts are arranged within time, strung along its length as on a thread. There they have their antecedents and their consequences, which crowd tightly together and press hard one upon the other without any pause. This has its importance for any narrative, of which continuity and successiveness are the soul.