Memories Images, Once They Are Fixed In

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

Whether There Is Such A Thing As Reality, Of Which The Various Levels Are Only Partial Aspects, Or Whether There Are Only Levels, Is Something That Literature Cannot Decide. Literature Recognizes Rather The *reality Of The Levels.*

Nobody Looks At The Moon In The Afternoon, And This Is The Moment When It Would Most Require Our Attention, Since Its Existence Is Still In Doubt.

You Have With You The Book You Were Reading In The Cafe, Which You Are Eager To Continue, So That You Can Then Hand It On To Her, To Communicate Again With Her Through The Channel Dug By Others' Words, Which, As They Are Uttered By An Alien Voice, By The Voice Of That Silent Nobody Made Of Ink And Typographical Spacing, Can Become Yours And Hers, A Language, A Code Between The Two Of You, A Means To Exchange Signals And Recognize Each Other.

Memories Images, Once They Are Fixed In Words, Are Erased.