I Long For Solitude And Yet I

We Are All Looking For Something Of Extraordinary Importance Whose Nature We Have Forgotten; I Am Writing The Memoirs Of A Man Who Has Lost His Memory.

All Cats Die. Socrates Is Dead. Therefore Socrates Is A Cat.

I Have Always Considered Imaginative Truth To Be More Profound, More Loaded With Significance, Than Every Day Reality... Everything We Dream About, And By That I Mean Everything We Desire, Is True (the Myth Of Icarus Came Before Aviation, And If Ader Or Bleriot Started Flying It Is Because All Men Have Dreamed Of Flight). There Is Nothing Truer Than Myth... Reality Does Not Have To Be: It Is Simply What Is.

As Soon As One Knows One Is Going To Die, Childhood Is Over.... So One Can Be Grown Up At Seven. Then, I Believe Most Human Beings Forget What They Have Understood, Recover Another Sort Of Childhood That Can Last All Their Lives. It Is Not A True Childhood But A Kind Of Forgetting. Desires And Anxieties Are There, Preventing You From Having Access To The Essential Truth.

Mediocrity Is More Dangerous In A Critic Than In A Writer.