My Advanced Age Has Taught Me The

A Labyrinth Of Symbols... An Invisible Labyrinth Of Time.

I Confess That I Have Not Cleared A Path Through All Seven Hundred Pages, I Confess To Having Examined Only Bits And Pieces, And Yet I Know What It Is, With That Bold And Legitimate Certainty With Which We Assert Our Knowledge Of A City, Without Ever Having Been Rewarded With The Intimacy Of All The Many Streets It Includes.

I Am Not Sure That I Exist, Actually. I Am All The Writers That I Have Read, All The People That I Have Met, All The Women That I Have Loved; All The Cities I Have Visited.

Im Merely A Dreamer, And Then A Writer, And My Happiest Moments Are When I'm A Reader.

A Writer Should Have Another Lifetime To See If He's Appreciated.