I'll make my report as if I told a story, for I was taught as a child on my homeworld that Truth is a matter of the imagination.

The machine conceals the machinations.

Love does not obey the mind, and turns to hate when forced.

I write with all my heart

Hate gets going, it goes round, it gets older and tighter and older and tighter, until it holds a person inside it like a fist holds a stick.

To oppose something is to maintain it... You must go somewhere else; you must have another goal; then you walk a different road.

Translation is entirely mysterious. Increasingly I have felt that the art of writing is itself translating, or more like translating than it is like anything else. What is the other text, the original? I have no answer. I suppose it is the source, the deep sea where ideas swim, and one catches them in nets of words and swings them shining into the boat... where in this metaphor they die and get canned and eaten in sandwiches.