Happy was she who could believe without seeing, who was at one with the duration and continuity of life.

Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies.

A short story relies on those values that make poetry and jazz what they are: tension, rhythms, inner beat, into unforeseen within foreseen parameters

(memory is) A strange echo, which stores its replicas according to some other acoustic than consciousness or expectation.

Before going back to sleep I imagined (I saw) a plastic universe, changeable, full of wondrous chance, an elastic sky, a sun that suddenly is missing or remains fixed or changes its shape.

Happy was she who could believe without seeing, who was at one with the duration and continuity of life.

Literature is ... a game, but it's a game one can put one's life into.