In the end we discover the only condition for living is to die.

There is relationship between sight and touch, something about eyes being able to see through the fingers touching the clay, about fingers being able to feel what the eyes are seeing without the fingers actually touching it.

In effect I am not a novelist, but rather a failed essayist who started to write novels because he didn't know how to write essays.

The virtue of maps, they show what can be done with limited space, they foresee that everything can happen therein.

If I'm sincere today, what does it matter if I regret it tomorrow?

The sun appears in one of the upper corners of the rectangle, on the left of anyone looking at the picture.

Human vocabulary is still not capable, and probably never will be, of knowing, recognizing, and communicating everything that can be humanly experienced and felt.