Bright colours in the west, giant butterflies dancing as night crept like a cripple toward the east.

That's a pretty story,' said Afanasievna as she let go of Ansky's genitals. 'A pity I'm too old and have seen to much to believe it.' It has nothing to do with belief,' said Ansky, 'it has to do with understanding, and then changing.

You have to know how to look even if you don't know what you're looking for.

When you die of sorrow it's as if you've broken all the bones in your body, bruised yourself all over, cracked your skull. That's sorrow.

Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, goodnight.

Literature is the product of a strange rain of blood, sweat, semen, and tears.

One should read Borges more.