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.

Imprecision is tolerable and verisimilar in literature, because we always tend towards it in life.

Besides, rereading, not reading, is what counts.

To say good-bye is to deny separation; it is to say Today we play at going our own ways, but we'll see each other tomorrow. Men invented farewells because they somehow knew themselves to be immortal, even while seeing themselves as contingent and ephemeral.

How can we manage to illuminate the pathos of our lives?

I never reread what I've written. I'm far too afraid to feel ashamed of what I've done.

The mind was dreaming. The world was its dream.