In Our Eyes The Roads Are Endless.

Even Money, Which Shines So Much, Spits Sometimes.

There Is Nothing More Poetic And Terrible Than The Skyscrapers' Battle With The Heavens That Cover Them. Snow, Rain, And Mist Highlight, Drench, Or Conceal The Vast Towers, But Those Towers, Hostile To Mystery And Blind To Any Sort Of Play, Shear Off The Rain's Tresses And Shine Their Three Thousand Swords Through The Soft Swan Of The Fog.

A Nation That Does Not Support And Encourage Its Theater Is - If Not Dead - Dying; Just As A Theater That Does Not Capture With Laughter And Tears The Social And Historical Pulse, The Drama Of Its People, The Genuine Color Of The Spiritual And Natural Landscape, Has No Right To Call Itself Theater; But Only A Place For Amusement.

The Terrible Thing Is That The Crowd That Fills The Street Believes That The World Will Always Be The Same And That It Is Their Duty To Keep That Huge Machine Running, Day And Night, Forever. This Is What Comes Of A Protestant Morality, That I, As A (thank God) Typical Spaniard, Found Unnerving.

Ever Since I Got Married I've Been Thinking Night And Day About Whose Fault It Was, And Every Time I Think About It, Out Comes A New Fault To Eat Up The Old One; But Always There's A Fault Left.