Nobody Looks At The Moon In The

Myth Is The Hidden Part Of Every Story, The Buried Part, The Region That Is Still Unexplored Because There Are As Yet No Words To Enable Us To Get There. Myth Is Nourished By Silence As Well As By Words.

Each New Clarice, Compact As A Living Body With Its Smells And Its Breath, Shows Off, Like A Gem, What Remains Of The Ancient Clarices, Fragmentary And Dead.

A Person's Life Consists Of A Collection Of Events, The Last Of Which Could Also Change The Meaning Of The Whole, Not Because It Counts More Than The Previous Ones But Because Once They Are Included In A Life, Events Are Arranged In An Order That Is Not Chronological But, Rather, Corresponds To An Inner Architecture.

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

The City, However, Does Not Tell Its Past, But Contains It Like The Lines Of A Hand, Written In The Corners Of The Streets, The Gratings Of The Windows, The Banisters Of The Steps, The Antennae Of The Lightning Rods, The Poles Of The Flags, Every Segment Marked In Turn With Scratches, Indentations, Scrolls.