...life Is Nothing But Trading Smells.

You Reach A Moment In Life When, Among The People You Have Known, The Dead Outnumber The Living. And The Mind Refuses To Accept More Faces, More Expressions: On Every New Face You Encounter, It Prints The Old Forms, For Each One It Finds The Most Suitable Mask.

Sometimes One Who Thinks Himself Incomplete Is Merely Young.

Your First Book Is The Only One That Matters. Perhaps A Writer Should Write Only That One. That Is The One Moment When You Make The Big Leap; The Opportunity To Express Yourself Is Offered That Once, And You Untie The Knot Within You Then Or Never Again.

The Things That The Novel Does Not Say Are Necessarily More Numerous Than Those It Does Say And Only A Special Halo Around What Is Written Can Give The Illusion That You Are Reading Also What Is Not Written.

Everything Can Change, But Not The Language That We Carry Inside Us, Like A World More Exclusive And Final Than One's Mother's Womb.