As the end approaches, there are no longer any images from memory - there are only words.

Then I reflect that all things happen, happen to one, precisely now. Century follows century, and things happen only in the present. There are countless men in the air, on land and at sea, and all that really happens happens to me.

All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.

Don't talk unless you can improve the silence.

Democracy is an abuse of statistics.

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

It may be that universal history is the history of the different intonations given a handful of metaphors.