Reality is not always probable, or likely.

We have shared out, like thieves, the amazing treasures of days and nights.

What will die with me the day I die? What pathetic or frail image will be lost to the world? The voice of Macedonio Fernandez, the image of a bay horse in a vacant lot on the corner of Sarrano and Charcas, a bar of sulfur in the drawer of a mahogany desk?

How can we manage to illuminate the pathos of our lives?

I have always come to life after coming to books.

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.

Your unforgivable sins do not allow you to see my splendor.