The catalogue of forms is endless: until every shape has found its city, new cities will continue to be born. When the forms exhaust their variety and come apart, the end of cities begins.

The sea where living creatures were at one time immersed is now enclosed within their bodies.

To fly is the opposite of traveling: you cross a gap in space, you vanish into the void, you accept not being in a place for a duration that is itself a kind of void in time; then you reappear, in a place and in a moment with no relation to the where and when in which you vanished.

The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls.

Memory is redundant: it repeats signs so that the city can begin to exist.

Everything can change, but not the language that we carry inside us, like a world more exclusive and final than one's mother's womb.

Novels as dull as dishwater, with the grease of random sentiments floating on top.