...life Is Nothing But Trading Smells.

Don't Ask Where The Rest Of This Book Is!" It Is A Shrill Cry That Comes From An Undefined Spot Among The Shelves. "all Books Continue In The Beyond.

I Am A Prisoner Of A Gaudy And Unlivable Present, Where All Forms Of Human Society Have Reached An Extreme Of Their Cycle And There Is No Imagining What New Forms They May Assume.

Though I Leave The House As Little As Possible, I Have The Impression That Someone Is Disturbing My Papers. More Than Once I Have Discovered That Some Pages Were Missing From My Manuscripts. A Few Days Afterward I Would Find The Pages In Their Place Again. But Often I No Longer Recognize My Manuscripts, As If I Had Forgotten What I Had Written, Or As If Overnight I Were So Changed That No Longer Recognized Myself In The Self Of Yesterday.

The Universe Is The Mirror In Which We Can Contemplate Only What We Have Learned To Know In Ourselves

To Write Well About The Elegant World You Have To Know It And Experience It To The Depths Of Your Being... What Matters Is Not Whether You Love It Or Hate It, But Only To Be Quite Clear About Your Position Regarding It.