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

I hardly know what I'm going to write - an article, a story, a poem in free verse - or in some regular form. I only know that when I have the first sentence. And when the first sentence makes a kind of pattern, then I find out the kind of rhythm I'm looking for.

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.

You who read me, are You sure of understanding my language?

In the order of literature, as in others, there is no act that is not the coronation of an infinite series of causes and the source of an infinite series of effects.

All theories are legitimate, no matter. What matters is what you do with them.

Like all those possessing a library, Aurelian was aware that he was guilty of not knowing his in its entirety.