In Love, As In Gluttony, Pleasure Is

The Human Race Is A Zone Of Living Things That Should Be Defined By Tracing Its Confines.

Biographical Data, Even Those Recorded In The Public Registers, Are The Most Private Things One Has, And To Declare Them Openly Is Rather Like Facing A Psychoanalyst.

The Unconscious Is The Ocean Of The Unsayable, Of What Has Been Expelled From The Land Of Language, Removed As A Result Of Ancient Prohibitions.

Work Stops At Sunset. Darkness Falls Over The Building Site. The Sky Is Filled With Stars. "there Is The Blueprint," They Say.

Reading Is Going Toward Something That Is About To Be, And No One Yet Knows What It Will Be.