Writing is only a guided dream.

The machinery of the world is far too complex for the simplicity of men.

A writer's work is the product of laziness.

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.

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

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

Let others pride themselves about how many pages they have written; I'd rather boast about the ones I've read.