I'm such a jerk; it had never occurred to me that when we look at a photo from the front, the eyes reproduce exactly the position and the vision of the lens; it's these things that are taken for granted and it never occurs to anyone to think about them.

I can't think of another writer who can move me as surreptitiously as Vian does

I think we all have a little bit of that beautiful madness that keeps us walking when everything around us is so insanely sane.

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

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

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.

Time is born in the eyes, everybody knows that.