Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.

In general, every country has the language it deserves.

We forget that we are all dead men conversing with dead men.

Leaving behind the babble of the plaza, I enter the Library. I feel, almost physically, the gravitation of the books, the enveloping serenity of order, time magically dessicated and preserved.

Translations are a partial and precious documentation of the changes the text suffers.

The certainty that everything has already been written annuls us, or renders us phantasmal.

I know that when I think of myself as being utterly worn out, when I think that somehow I have nothing more to write, then something is happening within me. And, in due course, it bubbles up; it comes to the surface, and then I do my best to listen. But there's nothing mystical about all this. I suppose all writers do the same.