Books, Which We Mistake For

Painting Is The Silence Of Thought And The Music Of Sight.

The Entire World Was Like A Palace With Countless Rooms Whose Doors Opened Into One Another. We Were Able To Pass From One Room To The Next Only By Exercising Our Memories And Imaginations, But Most Of Us, In Our Laziness, Rarely Exercised These Capacities, And Forever Remained In The Same Room.

Ka Found It Very Soothing: For The First Time In Years, He Felt Part Of A Family. In Spite Of The Trials And Responsibilities Of What Was Called 'family', He Saw Now The Joys Of Its Unyielding Togetherness, And Was Sorry Not To Have Known More Of It In His Life.

‎the Past Is Always An Invented Land.

What Was Venerated As Style Was Nothing More Than An Imperfection Or Flaw That Revealed The Guilty Hand.