One Reads Alone, Even In Another's Presence.

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.

In Abortion, The Person Who Is Massacred, Physically And Morally, Is The Woman.

In Politics, As In Every Other Sphere Of Life, There Are Two Important Principles For A Man Of Any Sense: Don't Cherish Too Many Illusions, And Never Stop Believing That Every Little Bit Helps.

Falsehood Is Never In Words; It Is In Things.

What He Sought Was Always Something Lying Ahead, And Even If It Was A Matter Of The Past It Was A Past That Changed Gradually As He Advanced On His Journey, Because The Traveller's Past Changes According To The Route He Has Followed: Not The Immediate Past, That Is, To Which Each Day That Goes By Adds A Day, But The More Remote Past. Arriving At Each New City, The Traveller Finds Again A Past Of His That He Did Not Know He Had: The Foreignness Of What You No Longer Are Or No Longer Possess Lies In Wait For You In Foreign, Unpossessed Places.