Memories Images, Once They Are Fixed In

Whether There Is Such A Thing As Reality, Of Which The Various Levels Are Only Partial Aspects, Or Whether There Are Only Levels, Is Something That Literature Cannot Decide. Literature Recognizes Rather The *reality Of The Levels.*

Melancholy Is Sadness That Has Taken On Lightness.

Biographical Data, Even Those Recorded In The Public Registers, Are The Most Private Things One Has, And To Declare Them Openly Is Rather Like Facing A Psychoanalyst.

Though I Leave The House As Little As Possible, I Have The Impression That Someone Is Disturbing My Papers. More Than Once I Have Discovered That Some Pages Were Missing From My Manuscripts. A Few Days Afterward I Would Find The Pages In Their Place Again. But Often I No Longer Recognize My Manuscripts, As If I Had Forgotten What I Had Written, Or As If Overnight I Were So Changed That No Longer Recognized Myself In The Self Of Yesterday.

To Write Well About The Elegant World You Have To Know It And Experience It To The Depths Of Your Being... What Matters Is Not Whether You Love It Or Hate It, But Only To Be Quite Clear About Your Position Regarding It.