I am unpacking my library. Yes I am. The books are not yet on the shelves, not yet touched by the mild boredom of order.

Like ultraviolet rays memory shows to each man in the book of life a script that invisibly and prophetically glosses the text.

It is the task of the translator to release in his own language that pure language that is under the spell of another, to liberate the language imprisoned in a work in his re-creation of that work.

Genuine polemics approach a book as lovingly as a cannibal spices a baby.

Work on a good piece of writing proceeds on three levels: a musical one, where it is composed, an architectural one, where it is constructed, and finally a textile one, where it is woven.

The work of memory collapses time.

In the world's structure dream loosens individuality like a bad tooth.