The Summer Has Ended. The

He Liked To Read With The Silence And The Golden Color Of The Whiskey As His Companions. He Liked Food, People, Talk, But Reading Was An Inexhaustible Pleasure. What The Joys Of Music Were To Others, Words On A Page Were To Him.

The Myriad Past, It Enters Us And Disappears. Except That Within It, Somewhere, Like Diamonds, Exist The Fragments That Refuse To Be Consumed. Sifting Through, If One Dares, And Collecting Them, One Discovers The True Design.

The Summer Has Ended. The Garden Withers. The Mornings Become Chill. I Am Thirty, I Am Thirty-four -the Years Turn Dry As Leaves.

There Is No Complete Life. There Are Only Fragments. We Are Born To Have Nothing, To Have It Pour Through Our Hands. And Yet, This Pouring, This Flood Of Encounters, Struggles, Dreams...

You Would Have To Be Very Optimistic To Think That Any Of Your Books Will Be Among The Books That Survive In The Very Long Run. I Think If A Writer Is Lucky Enough To Still Have A Few Books Around After He's Gone, A Few That Are Still Being Read, Then He's Accomplished Quite A Lot.