When A Writer Is Born

Love Means To Look At Yourself The Way One Looks At Distant Things For You Are Only One Thing Among Many.

I Was Left Behind With The Immensity Of Existing Things. A Sponge, Suffering Because It Cannot Saturate Itself; A River, Suffering Because Reflections Of Clouds And Trees Are Not Clouds And Trees.

Our Memory Is Childish And It Saves Only What We Need.

Evil Grows And Bears Fruit, Which Is Understandable, Because It Has Logic And Probability On Its Side And Also, Of Course, Strength. The Resistance Of Tiny Kernels Of Good, To Which No One Grants The Power Of Causing Far-reaching Consequences, Is Entirely Mysterious, However. Such Seeming Nothingness Not Only Lasts But Contains Within Itself Enormous Energy Which Is Revealed Gradually.

The History Of My Stupidity Would Fill Many Volumes.