When We Ignore The Body,

We Don't Know When Our Name Came Into Being Or How Some Distant Ancestor Acquired It. We Don't Understand Our Name At All, We Don't Know Its History And Yet We Bear It With Exalted Fidelity, We Merge With It, We Like It, We Are Ridiculously Proud Of It As If We Had Thought It Up Ourselves In A Moment Of Brilliant Inspiration.

There Is A Secret Bond Between Slowness And Memory, Between Speed And Forgetting.

The Novelist Teaches The Reader To Comprehend The World As A Question. There Is Wisdom And Tolerance In That Attitude. In A World Built On Sacrosanct Certainties The Novel Is Dead.

He Kept Recalling Her Lying On His Bed; She Reminded Him Of No One In His Former Life.

No Matter How Much We Scorn It, Kitsch Is An Integral Part Of The Human Condition.