In Some Lost Fold Of The Past,

…i Realized My Happiness Was Artificial. I Felt Happy Because I Saw The Others Were Happy And Because I Knew I Should Feel Happy, But I Wasn't Really Happy.

I'm An Educated Man, The Prisons I Know Are Subtle Ones.

Every Book In The World Is Out There Waiting To Be Read By Me.

The Moon Is Fat And The Night Air Is So Pure It Seems Edible.

Probably All Of Us, Writers And Readers Alike, Set Out Into Exile, Or At Least Into A Certain Kind Of Exile, When We Leave Childhood Behind...the Immigrant, The Nomad, The Traveler, The Sleepwalker All Exist, But Not The Exile, Since Every Writer Becomes An Exile Simply By Venturing Into Literature, And Every Reader Becomes An Exile Simply By Opening A Book.