I saw a sunset in Queretaro that seemed to reflect the color of a rose in Bengal.

I have known uncertainty: a state unknown to the Greeks.

Every writer creates his own precursors. His work modifies our conception of the past, as it will modify the future.

The time for your labor has been granted.

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.

The Falklands thing was a fight between two bald men over a comb.

It seemed incredible that this day, a day without warnings or omens, might be that of my implacable death.