This noble body, equipped with everything necessary, almost to the point of bursting, also appeared to carry freedom around with it.

People who walk across dark bridges, past saints, with dim, small lights. Clouds which move across gray skies past churches with towers darkened in the dusk. One who leans against granite railing gazing into the evening waters, His hands resting on old stones.

For words are magical formulae. They leave finger marks be hind on the brain, which in the twinkling of an eye become the footprints of history. One ought to watch one' s every word.

There are times when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.

I am away from home and must always write home, even if any home of mine has long since floated away into eternity.

Books are a narcotic.

Nothing, you know, gives the body greater satisfaction than ordering people about, or at least believing in one's ability to do so.