It Was The Men I Deceived The

Paradoxically, The Freedom Of Paris Is Associated With A Persistent Belief That Nothing Ever Changes. Paris, They Say, Is The City That Changes Least. After An Absence Of Twenty Or Thirty Years, One Still Recognizes It.

The Solitude Of Writing Is A Solitude Without Which Writing Could Not Be Produced, Or Would Crumble, Drained Bloodless By The Search For Something Else To Write.

Alcohol Doesn't Console, It Doesn't Fill Up Anyone's Psychological Gaps, All It Replaces Is The Lack Of God. It Doesn't Comfort Man. On The Contrary, It Encourages Him In His Folly, It Transports Him To The Supreme Regions Where He Is Master Of His Own Destiny.

All That Remains Of That Minute Is Time In All Its Purity, Bone-white Time.

Words Don't Change Their Shape, They Change Their Meaning, Their Function...they Don't Have A Meaning Of Their Own Any More, They Refer To Other Words That You Don't Know, That You've Never Read Or Heard...you've Never Seen Their Shape, But You Feel...you Suspect...they Correspond To...an Empty Space Inside You...or In The Universe.