Reality favors symmetry.

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.

Time forks perpetually toward innumerable futures.

If a writer disbelieves what he is writing, then he can hardly expect his reader to believe it.

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

I think of reading a book as no less an experience than travelling or falling in love.

I think of myself primarily as a reader, then also a writer, but that's more or less irrelevant. I think I'm a good reader, I'm a good reader in many languages, especially in English, since poetry came to me through the English language, initially through my father's love of Swinburn, of Tennyson, and also of Keats, Shelley and so on - not through my native tongue, not through Spanish. It came to me as a kind of spell. I didn't understand it, but I felt it.