The More Circumspectly You Delay Writing Down

I Am Unpacking My Library. Yes I Am. The Books Are Not Yet On The Shelves, Not Yet Touched By The Mild Boredom Of Order.

Even The Most Perfect Reproduction Of A Work Of Art Is Lacking In One Element: Its Presence In Time And Space, Its Unique Existence At The Place Where It Happens To Be.

All The Decisive Blows Are Struck Left-handed.

What Has Been Forgotten Is Never Something Purely Individual. Everything Forgotten Mingles With What Has Been Forgotten Of The Prehistoric World, Forms Countless, Uncertain, Changing Compounds, Yielding A Constant Flow Of New, Strange Products.

Our Image Of Happiness Is Indissolubly Bound Up With The Image Of The Past.