Memory is redundant: it repeats signs so that the city can begin to exist.
Futures not achieved are only branches of the past: dead branches.
Novels as dull as dishwater, with the grease of random sentiments floating on top.
They knew each other. He knew her and so himself, for in truth he had never known himself. And she knew him and so herself, for although she had always known herself she had never been able to recognize it until now.
Nobody these days holds the written word in such high esteem as police states do.
To write well about the elegant world you have to know it and experience it to the depths of your being... what matters is not whether you love it or hate it, but only to be quite clear about your position regarding it.