It may be that universal history is the history of the different intonations given a handful of metaphors.

Then he reflected that reality does not usually coincide with our anticipation of it; with a logic of his own he inferred that to forsee a circumstantial detail is to prevent its happening. Trusting in this weak magic, he invented, so that they would not happen, the most gruesome details.

As the end approaches, there are no longer any images from memory - there are only words.

Everything touches everything.

I don't think there's any essential difference, at least for me, between writing poetry and writing prose.

When writers die they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation.

We (the indivisible divinity that works in us) have dreamed the world. We have dreamed it resistant, mysterious, visible, ubiquitous in space and firm in time, but we have allowed slight, and eternal, bits of the irrational to form part of its architecture so as to know that it is false.