How Strange Women Are.

One Night A Friend Lent Me A Book Of Short Stories By Franz Kafka. I Went Back To The Pension Where I Was Staying And Began To Read The Metamorphosis. The First Line Almost Knocked Me Off The Bed. I Was So Surprised. The First Line Reads, “as Gregor Samsa Awoke That Morning From Uneasy Dreams, He Found Himself Transformed In His Bed Into A Gigantic Insect. . . .” When I Read The Line I Thought To Myself That I Didn’t Know Anyone Was Allowed To Write Things Like That. If I Had Known, I Would Have Started Writing A Long Time Ago. So I Immediately Started Writing Short Stories.

In Her Final Years She Would Still Recall The Trip That, With The Perverse Lucidity Of Nostalgia, Became More And More Recent In Her Memory.

The More Transparent The Writing, The More Visible The Poetry.

I Do Not Believe There Is A Method Better Than Montessori For Making Children Sensitive To The Beauties Of The World And Awakening Their Curiosity Regarding The Secrets Of Life.

As I Kissed Her The Heat Of Her Body Increased, And It Exhaled A Wild, Untamed Fragrance.