Wordplay hides a key to reality that the dictionary tries in vain to lock inside every free word.

Where are the beginnings, the endings, and most important, the middles?

In quoting others, we cite ourselves.

Everything can be killed except nostalgia for the kingdom, we carry it in the color of our eyes, in every love affair, in everything that deeply torments and unties and tricks.

The mysterious does not spell itself out in capital letters, as many writers believe, but is always between, an interstice.

The fantastic breaks the crust of appearance … something grabs us by the shoulders to throw us outside ourselves. I have always known that the big surprises await us where we have learned to be surprised by nothing, that is, where we are not shocked by ruptures in the order.

As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked out in the middle of the courtyard. (...) You don't pick out the rain that soaks you to the skin when you come out of a concert.