I Think We All Have

Memory Weaves And Traps Us At The Same Time According To A Scheme In Which We Do Not Participate: We Should Never Speak Of Our Memory, For It Is Anything But Ours; It Works On Its Own Terms, It Assists Us While Deceiving Us Or Perhaps Deceives Up To Assist Us.

Only In Dreams, In Poetry, In Play Do We Sometimes Arrive At What We Were Before We Were This Thing That, Who Knows, We Are.

What Good Is A Writer If He Can't Destroy Literature? And Us... What Good Are We If We Don't Help As Much As We Can In That Destruction?

I Think It Is Vanity To Want To Put Into A Story Anything But The Story Itself.

Everything Can Be Killed Except Nostalgia For The Kingdom, We Carry It In The Color Of Our Eyes, In Every Love Affair, In Everything That Deeply Torments And Unties And Tricks.