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.

There is no language without deceit.

Today each of you is the object of the other’s reading, one reads in the other the unwritten story.

The book I'm looking for,' says the blurred figure, who holds out a volume similar to yours, 'is the one that gives the sense of the world after the end of the world, the sense that the world is the end of everything that there is in the world, that the only thing there is in the world is the end of the world.

You know that the best you can expect is to avoid the worst.

Melancholy is sadness that has taken on lightness.

...Life is nothing but trading smells.