Every Time I Must Find Something To

A Writer's Work Has To Take Account Of Many Rhythms: Vulcan's And Mercury's, A Message Of Urgency Obtained By Dint Of Patient And Meticulous Adjustments And An Intuition So Instantaneous That, When Formulated, It Acquires The Finality Of Something That Could Never Have Been Otherwise. But It Is Also The Rhythm Of Time That Passes With No Other Aim Than To Let Feelings And Thoughts Settle Down, Mature, And Shed All Impatience Or Ephemeral Contingency.

Literature Remains Alive Only If We Set Ourselves Immeasurable Goals, Far Beyond All Hope Of Achievement. Only If Poets And Writers Set Themselves Tasks That No One Else Dares Imagine Will Literature Continue To Have A Function.

Photography Has A Meaning Only If It Exhausts All Possible Images.

Cities, Like Dreams, Are Made Of Desires And Fears, Even If The Thread Of Their Discourse Is Secret, Their Rules Are Absurd, Their Perspectives Deceitful, And Everything Conceals Something Else.

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