Art Is What Remains Of Religion: The

The Whole Motley Confusion Of Acts, Omissions, Regrets And Hopes Which Is The Life Of Each One Of Us Finds In Death, Not Meaning Or Explanation, But An End.

The Purpose Of Poetry Is To Restore To Mankind The Possibility To Wonder.

The Woman Who Died Night After Night And Her Dying Was A Long Goodbye, A Train That Never Left.

We Are Condemned To Kill Time, Thus We Die Bit By Bit.

The Mexican...is Familiar With Death. [he] Jokes About It, Caresses It, Sleeps With It, Celebrates It. It Is One Of His Favorite Toys And His Most Steadfast Love.