Captivated by its discipline, humanity forgets and goes on forgetting that it is the discipline of chess players, not of angels.

Time forks perpetually toward innumerable futures.

Fame is a form, perhaps the worst form, of incomprehension.

In general, every country has the language it deserves.

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

Besides, rereading, not reading, is what counts.

Another school declares that all time has already transpired and that our life is only the crepuscular and no doubt falsified and mutilated memory or reflection of an irrecoverable process.