For The Man Who Thought He Was

The Best Introduction To The Psychological World Of One Of The Most Important And Gifted Writers Of Our Time.

Literature Remains Alive Only If We Set Ourselves Immeasurable Goals, Far Beyond All Hope Of Achievement. Only If Poets And Writers Set Themselves Tasks That No One Else Dares Imagine Will Literature Continue To Have A Function.

Your House, Being The Place In Which You Read, Can Tell Us The Position Books Occupy In Your Life, If They Are A Defense You Set Up To Keep The Outside World At A Distance, If They Area Dream Into Which You Sink As If Into A Drug, Or Bridges You Cast Toward The Outside, Toward The World That Interests You So Much That You Want To Multiply And Extend Its Dimensions Through Books.

The Lives Of Individuals Of The Human Race Form A Constant Plot, In Which Every Attempt To Isolate One Piece Of Living That Has A Meaning Separate From The Rest-for Example, The Meeting Of Two People, Which Will Become Decisive For Both-must Bear In Mind That Each Of The Two Brings With Himself A Texture Of Events, Environments, Other People, And That From The Meeting, In Turn, Other Stories Will Be Derived Which Will Break Off From Their Common Story.

The Things That The Novel Does Not Say Are Necessarily More Numerous Than Those It Does Say And Only A Special Halo Around What Is Written Can Give The Illusion That You Are Reading Also What Is Not Written.