There Is No Language Without Deceit.

The City, However, Does Not Tell Its Past, But Contains It Like The Lines Of A Hand

Sometimes One Who Thinks Himself Incomplete Is Merely Young.

Fantasy Is Like Jam. . . . You Have To Spread It On A Solid Piece Of Bread. If Not, It Remains A Shapeless Thing . . . Out Of Which You Can’t Make Anything.

Each Sort Of Cheese Reveals A Pasture Of A Different Green, Under A Different Sky.

What About Books? Well, Precisely Because You Have Denied It In Every Other Field, You Believe You May Still Grant Yourself Legitimately This Youthful Pleasure Of Expectation In A Carefully Circumscribed Area Like The Field Of Books, Where You Can Be Lucky Or Unlucky, But The Risk Of Disappointment Isn't Serious.