Memory Is A Mirror That Scandalously Lies.

But What Is Memory If Not The Language Of Feeling, A Dictionary Of Faces And Days And Smells Which Repeat Themselves Like The Verbs And Adjectives In A Speech, Sneaking In Behind The Thing Itself,into The Pure Present, Making Us Sad Or Teaching Us Vicariously.

There Was A Time When I Thought A Great Deal About The Axolotls. I Went To See Them At The Aquarium At The Jardin Des Plantes And Stayed For Hours Watching Them, Observing Their Immobility; Their Faint Movements. Now I Am An Axolotl.

Before Going Back To Sleep I Imagined (i Saw) A Plastic Universe, Changeable, Full Of Wondrous Chance, An Elastic Sky, A Sun That Suddenly Is Missing Or Remains Fixed Or Changes Its Shape.

I Sometimes Longed For Someone Who, Like Me, Had Not Adjusted Perfectly With His Age, And Such A Person Was Hard To Find; But I Soon Discovered Cats, In Which I Could Imagine A Condition Like Mine, And Books, Where I Found It Quite Often.

What Good Is A Writer If He Can't Destroy Literature? And Us... What Good Are We If We Don't Help As Much As We Can In That Destruction?