Soon, Nostalgia Will Be Another Name For

In The Mythic Schema Of All Relations Between Men And Women, Man Proposes, And Woman Is Disposed Of.

Do Not Think I Do Not Realise What I Am Doing. I Am Making A Composition Using The Following Elements: The Winter Beach; The Winter Moon; The Ocean; The Women; The Pine Trees; The Riders; The Driftwood; The Shells; The Shapes Of Darkness And The Shapes Of Water; And The Refuse. These Are All Inimical To My Loneliness Because Of Their Indifference To It. Out Of These Pieces Of Inimical Indifference, I Intend To Represent The Desolate Smile Of Winter Which, As You Must Have Gathered, Is The Smile I Wear.

Reading A Book Is Like Re-writing It For Yourself.

As For My Father, Few Souls Are Less Troubled. He Can Be Simply Pleased With Us, Pleased That We Exist, And, From The Vantage Point Of His Wondrously Serene Old Age, He Contemplates Our Lives Almost As If They Were Books He Can Dip Into Whenever He Wants. His Back Pages, Perhaps.

There's A Theory, One I Find Persuasive, That The Quest For Knowledge Is, At Bottom, The Search For The Answer To The Question: Where Was I Before I Was Born. In The Beginning Was What? Perhaps, In The Beginning, There Was A Curious Room, A Room Like This One, Crammed With Wonders; And Now The Room And All It Contains Are Forbidden You, Although It Was Made Just For You, Had Been Prepared For You Since Time Began, And You Will Spend All Your Life Trying To Remember It.