I have never described this to you before, not so much, I don't think, from lack of truthfulness as that, just naturally, one is not going to explain to people at large that from time to time one vomits up a small rabbit.

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

But what is memory if not the language of feeling, a dictionary of faces and days and smells which repeat themselves like the verbs and adjectives in a speech, sneaking in behind the thing itself,into the pure present, making us sad or teaching us vicariously.

We no longer believe because it is absurd: it is absurd because we must believe.

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

What good is a writer if he can't destroy literature? And us... what good are we if we don't help as much as we can in that destruction?

The unusual is only found in a very small percentage, except in literary creations, and that is exactly what makes literature.