And Love Became The World's

Small Jerks Began To Appear In My Legs, My Walk Became Unsteady Precisely Because I Wanted It To Be Smooth.

A Word Can Be Transformed Into A Coulour, Light, A Smell; It Is The Writer's Task To Use It In Such A Way That It Serves, Never Fails, Can Never Be Ignored.

The Other One He Loved Like A Slave, Like A Madman And Like A Beggar. Why? Ask The Dust On The Road And The Falling Leaves, Ask The Mysterious God Of Life; For No One Knows Such Things. She Gave Him Nothing, No Nothing Did She Give Him And Yet He Thanked Her. She Said: Give Me Your Peace And Your Reason! And He Was Only Sorry She Did Not Ask For His Life.

Truth Is Neither Ojectivity Nor The Balanced View; Truth Is A Selfless Subjectivity.

Language Must Resound With All The Harmonies Of Music. The Writer Must Always, At All Times, Find The Tremulous Word Which Captures The Thing And Is Able To Draw A Sob From My Soul By Its Very Rightness.