The summer has ended. The garden withers. The mornings become chill. I am thirty, I am thirty-four -the years turn dry as leaves.

Dialogue's a method of revelation, of course. A few words of dialogue can reveal worlds about a character.

On the Internet, everyone is writing. There is a great flowering of writing.

The dreams are the skeleton of all reality.

Why is it so difficult to assemble those things that really matter in life and to dwell among them only? I am referring to certain landscapes, persons, beasts, books, rooms, meteorological conditions, fruits.

A light snow, a snow so faint and small-bodied that it seems nothing more than a manifestation of the cold.

I don't hold myself dictated to by what everyone is saying, by the tabloids or popular opinion. I don't like bourgeois values. I say you find your own way to live.