... the current of time slowing down in the gravitational field of oblivion.

It seems to me then as if all the moments of our life occupy the same space, as if future events already existed and were only waiting for us to find our way to them at last, just as when we have accepted an invitation we duly arrive in a certain house at a given time.

We take almost all the decisive steps in our lives as a result of slight inner adjustments of which we are barely conscious.

It is thanks to my evening reading alone that I am still more or less sane.

Tiny details imperceptible to us decide everything!

There is something peculiarly dispriting about the emptiness that wells up when, in a strange city, one dials the same telephone numbers in vain.

This then, I thought, as I looked round about me, is the representation of history. It requires a falsification of perspective. We, the survivors, see everything from above, see everything at once, and still we do not know how it was.