Now The Windows, Blinded By The Glare

Lifelessness Is Only A Disguise Behind Which Hide Unknown Forms Of Life.

Ordinary Facts Are Arranged Within Time, Strung Along Its Length As On A Thread. There They Have Their Antecedents And Their Consequences, Which Crowd Tightly Together And Press Hard One Upon The Other Without Any Pause. This Has Its Importance For Any Narrative, Of Which Continuity And Successiveness Are The Soul.

How Can One Not Succumb And Allow One's Courage To Fail When Everything Is Shut Tight, When All Meaningful Things Are Walled Up, And When You Constantly Knock Against Bricks, As Against The Walls Of A Prison?

In Our Town There Was A Gestapo Officer Who Loved To Play Chess. After The Occupation Began, He Found Out That My Father Was The Chess Master Of The Region, And So He Had Him To His House Every Night.

And One's Wandering Proved As Sterile And Pointless As The Excitement Produced By A Close Study Of Pornographic Albums.