I Remember That During The Period Leading

This Is The Most Intimate Relationship Between Literature And Its Readers: They Treat The Text As A Part Of Themselves, As A Possession.

More Than Anything, One Is Struck By The Light. Light Everywhere. Brightness Everywhere. Everywhere, The Sun.

A Journey, After All, Neither Begins In The Instant We Set Out, Nor Ends When We Have Reached Our Door Step Once Again. It Starts Much Earlier And Is Really Never Over, Because The Film Of Memory Continues Running On Inside Of Us Long After We Have Come To A Physical Standstill. Indeed, There Exists Something Like A Contagion Of Travel, And The Disease Is Essentially Incurable.

The Continent Is Too Large To Describe. It Is A Veritable Ocean, A Separate Planet, A Varied, Immensely Rich Cosmos. Only With The Greatest Simplification, For The Sake Of Convenience, Can We Say 'africa'. In Reality, Except As A Geographical Appellation, Africa Does Not Exist.

Our Salvation Is In Striving To Achieve What We Know We'll Never Achieve.