...life Is Nothing But Trading Smells.

You Have With You The Book You Were Reading In The Cafe, Which You Are Eager To Continue, So That You Can Then Hand It On To Her, To Communicate Again With Her Through The Channel Dug By Others' Words, Which, As They Are Uttered By An Alien Voice, By The Voice Of That Silent Nobody Made Of Ink And Typographical Spacing, Can Become Yours And Hers, A Language, A Code Between The Two Of You, A Means To Exchange Signals And Recognize Each Other.

You Are About To Begin Reading Italo Calvino's New Novel, If On A Winter's Night A Traveler.

Reading Is Going Toward Something That Is About To Be, And No One Yet Knows What It Will Be.

The Close-up Has No Equivalent In A Narrative Fashioned Of Words. Literature Is Totally Lacking In Any Working Method To Enable It To Isolate A Single Vastly Enlarged Detail In Which One Face Comes Forward To Underline A State Of Mind Or Stress The Importance Of A Single Detail In Comparison With The Rest. As A Narrative Device, The Ability To Vary The Distance Between The Camera And The Object May Be A Small Thing Indeed, But It Makes For A Notable Difference Between Cinema And Oral Or Written Narrative, In Which The Distance Between Language And Image Is Always The Same.

What Romantic Terminology Called Genius Or Talent Or Inspiration Is Nothing Other Than Finding The Right Road Empirically, Following One's Nose, Taking Shortcuts.