Each Thing Implies The Universe.

Literature Is Not Exhaustible, For The Sufficient And Simple Reason That A Single Book Is Not.

We Have Shared Out, Like Thieves, The Amazing Treasures Of Days And Nights.

The Task Of Art Is To Transform What Is Continuously Happening To Us, To Transform All Of These Things Into Symbols, Into Music, Into Something Which Can Last In Man’s Memory. That Is Our Duty. If We Don’t Fulfill It, We Feel Unhappy.

A Book Is A Physical Object In A World Of Physical Objects. It Is A Set Of Dead Symbols. And Then The Right Reader Comes Along, And The Words—or Rather The Poetry Behind The Words, For The Words Themselves Are Mere Symbols—spring To Life, And We Have A Resurrection Of The Word.

I Saw A Sunset In Queretaro That Seemed To Reflect The Color Of A Rose In Bengal.