A man sets out to draw the world. As the years go by, he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, instruments, stars, horses, and individuals. A short time before he dies, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the lineaments of his own face.

If a writer disbelieves what he is writing, then he can hardly expect his reader to believe it.

In Spanish it is very difficult to make things flow, because words are over-long. But in English, you have light words.

We are our memory, we are that chimerical museum of shifting shapes, that pile of broken mirrors.

A man sets himself the task of portraying the world. Shortly before he dies he discovers that this patient labyrinth of lines is a drawing of his own face.

I foresee that man will resign himself each day to new abominations, and soon that only bandits and soldiers will be left...

Lully's machine, Mill's fear and Lasswitz's chaotic library can be the subject of jokes, but they exaggerate a propensity which is common: making metaphysics and the arts into a kind of play with combinations.