The art of storytelling is reaching its end because the epic side of truth, wisdom, is dying out.

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

It is in a small village in the Pyrenees where no one knows me 7that my life will come to a close.... There is not enough time remaining for me to write all the letters I would like to write.

The camera introduces us to unconscious optics as does psychoanalysis to unconscious impulses.

Death is the sanction of everything that the storyteller can tell. He has borrowed his authority from death.

The art of storytelling is reaching its end because the epic side of truth, wisdom, is dying out.

This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceived a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. This storm irresistably propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. The storm is what we call progress.