Sometimes One Who Thinks Himself Incomplete Is

The Catalogue Of Forms Is Endless: Until Every Shape Has Found Its City, New Cities Will Continue To Be Born. When The Forms Exhaust Their Variety And Come Apart, The End Of Cities Begins.

What Harbor Can Receive You More Securely Than A Great Library?

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.*

Novels As Dull As Dishwater, With The Grease Of Random Sentiments Floating On Top.

So You Begin To Wonder If Leonia's True Passion Is Really, As They Say, The Enjoyment Of New And Different Things, And Not, Instead, The Joy Of Expelling, Discarding, Cleansing Itself Of A Recurrent Impurity.