It Is In The Movements Of Emotional

There Were Silences In My Head. I Could Abandon Myself Completely To The Pleasure Of Multiple Relationships, To The Beauty Of The Day, To The Joys Of The Day. It Was As If A Cancer In Me Had Ceased Gnawing Me. The Cancer Of Introspection.

Woman Does Not Forget She Needs The Fecundator, She Does Not Forget That Everything That Is Born Of Her Is Planted In Her.

Solitude May Rust Your Words.

Secrets. Need To Disguise. The Novel Was Born Of This.

The Personal, If It Is Deep Enough, Becomes Universal, Mythical, Symbolic.