Mnemosyne, One Must Admit, Has Shown Herself

Curiously Enough, One Cannot Read A Book; One Can Only Reread It. A Good Reader, A Major Reader, And Active And Creative Reader Is A Rereader.

I Think Like A Genius, I Write Like A Distinguished Author, And I Speak Like A Child.

There Is Only One Real Number: One. And Love, Apparently, Is The Best Exponent Of This Singularity.

We Think Not In Words But In Shadows Of Words.

We Had Been Everywhere. We Had Really Seen Nothing. And I Catch Myself Thinking Today That Our Long Journey Had Only Defiled With A Sinuous Trail Of Slime The Lovely, Trustful, Dreamy, Enormous Country That By Then, In Retrospect, Was No More To Us Than A Collection Of Dog-eared Maps, Ruined Tour Books, Old Tires, And Her Sobs In The Night — Every Night, Every Night — The Moment I Feigned Sleep.