Writing Is Like Paying Myself A Formal

There Is No Safe Standard To Tell Man From Animals.

Sometimes, When I Wake Up At Night, I Feel Invisible Hands Weaving My Destiny.

Wasting Time Has An Esthetics To It.

In The Ordinary Jumble Of My Literary Drawer, I Sometimes Find Texts I Wrote Ten, Fifteen, Or Even More Years Ago. And Many Of Them Seem To Me Written By A Stranger: I Simply Do Not Recognize Myself In Them. There Was A Person Who Wrote Them, And It Was I. I Experienced Them, But It Was In Another Life, From Which I Just Woke Up, As If From Someone Else's Dream.

Writing Is Like Paying Myself A Formal Visit.