Cities, Like Dreams, Are Made Of Desires

Now, The Old Man Happened To Be The Lord.

A Writer's Work Has To Take Account Of Many Rhythms: Vulcan's And Mercury's, A Message Of Urgency Obtained By Dint Of Patient And Meticulous Adjustments And An Intuition So Instantaneous That, When Formulated, It Acquires The Finality Of Something That Could Never Have Been Otherwise. But It Is Also The Rhythm Of Time That Passes With No Other Aim Than To Let Feelings And Thoughts Settle Down, Mature, And Shed All Impatience Or Ephemeral Contingency.

The Struggle Of Literature Is In Fact A Struggle To Escape From The Confines Of Language; It Stretches Out From The Utmost Limits Of What Can Be Said; What Stirs Literature Is The Call And Attraction Of What Is Not In The Dictionary.

The Catalogue Of Forms Is Endless: Until Every Shape Has Found Its City, New Cities Will Continue To Be Born. When The Forms Exhaust Their Variety And Come Apart, The End Of Cities Begins.

Photography Has A Meaning Only If It Exhausts All Possible Images.