After The Age Of 50 We Begin

Memory Weaves And Traps Us At The Same Time According To A Scheme In Which We Do Not Participate: We Should Never Speak Of Our Memory, For It Is Anything But Ours; It Works On Its Own Terms, It Assists Us While Deceiving Us Or Perhaps Deceives Up To Assist Us.

Time Is Born In The Eyes, Everybody Knows That.

Memory Is A Mirror That Scandalously Lies.

Literature Is ... A Game, But It's A Game One Can Put One's Life Into.

Everything Can Be Killed Except Nostalgia For The Kingdom, We Carry It In The Color Of Our Eyes, In Every Love Affair, In Everything That Deeply Torments And Unties And Tricks.