…we Can Not Love Or

They Knew Each Other. He Knew Her And So Himself, For In Truth He Had Never Known Himself. And She Knew Him And So Herself, For Although She Had Always Known Herself She Had Never Been Able To Recognize It Until Now.

My Confidence In The Future Of Literature Consists In The Knowledge That There Are Things That Only Literature Can Give Us, By Means Specific To It.

What Romantic Terminology Called Genius Or Talent Or Inspiration Is Nothing Other Than Finding The Right Road Empirically, Following One's Nose, Taking Shortcuts.

We Could Say, Then, That Man Is An Instrument The World Employs To Renew Its Own Image Constantly.

You Walk For Days Among Trees And Among Stones. Rarely Does The Eye Light On A Thing, And Then Only When It Has Recognized That Thing As The Sign Of Another Thing: A Print In The Sand Indicates The Tiger's Passage; A Marsh Announces A Vein Of Water; The Hibiscus Flower, The End Of Winter. All The Rest Is Silent And Interchangeable; Trees And Stones Are Only What They Are.