Cities, Like Dreams, Are Made Of Desires

The Ultimate Meaning To Which All Stories Refer Has Two Faces: The Continuity Of Life, The Inevitability Of Death.

Novels As Dull As Dishwater, With The Grease Of Random Sentiments Floating On Top.

I Could Distinguish The Shape Of Her Bosom, Her Arms, Her Thighs, Just As I Remember Them Now, Just As Now, When The Moon Has Become That Flat, Remote Circle, I Still Look For Her As Soon As The First Sliver Appears In The Sky, And The More It Waxes, The More Clearly I Imagine I Can See Her, Her Or Something Of Her, But Only Her, In A Hundred, A Thousand Different Vistas, She Who Makes The Moon The Moon And, Whenever She Is Full, Sets The Dogs To Howling All Night Long, And Me With Them.

My Confidence In The Future Of Literature Consists In The Knowledge That There Are Things That Only Literature Can Give Us, By Means Specific To It.

We Could Say, Then, That Man Is An Instrument The World Employs To Renew Its Own Image Constantly.