The Catalogue Of Forms Is Endless: Until

The Book I'm Looking For,' Says The Blurred Figure, Who Holds Out A Volume Similar To Yours, 'is The One That Gives The Sense Of The World After The End Of The World, The Sense That The World Is The End Of Everything That There Is In The World, That The Only Thing There Is In The World Is The End Of The World.

Your House, Being The Place In Which You Read, Can Tell Us The Position Books Occupy In Your Life, If They Are A Defense You Set Up To Keep The Outside World At A Distance, If They Area Dream Into Which You Sink As If Into A Drug, Or Bridges You Cast Toward The Outside, Toward The World That Interests You So Much That You Want To Multiply And Extend Its Dimensions Through Books.

Traveling, You Realize That Differences Are Lost: Each City Takes To Resembling All Cities, Places Exchange Their Form, Order, Distances, A Shapeless Dust Cloud Invades The Continents.

Perhaps Everything Lies In Knowing What Words To Speak, What Actions To Perform, And In What Order And Rhythm; Or Else Someone's Gaze, Answer, Gesture Is Enough; It Is Enough For Someone To Do Something For The Sheer Pleasure Of Doing It, And For His Pleasure To Become The Pleasure Of Others: At That Moment, All Spaces Change, All Heights, Distances; The City Is Transfigured, Becomes Crystalline, Transparent As A Dragonfly.

It Was The Hour In Which Objects Lose The Consistency Of Shadow That Accompanies Them During The Night And Gradually Reacquire Colors, But Seem To Cross Meanwhile An Uncertain Limbo, Faintly Touched, Just Breathed On By Light; The Hour In Which One Is Least Certain Of The World's Existence.