Elsewhere Is A Negative Mirror.

I Will Start Out This Evening With An Assertion: Fantasy Is A Place Where It Rains.

To Fly Is The Opposite Of Traveling: You Cross A Gap In Space, You Vanish Into The Void, You Accept Not Being In A Place For A Duration That Is Itself A Kind Of Void In Time; Then You Reappear, In A Place And In A Moment With No Relation To The Where And When In Which You Vanished.

Who Are We, Who Is Each One Of Us, If Not A Combination Of Experiences, Information, Books We Have Read, Things Imagined? Each Life Is An Encyclopedia, A Library, An Inventory Of Objects, A Series Of Styles, And Everything Can Be Constantly Shuffled And Reordered In Every Way Conceivable.

When I'm Writing A Book I Prefer Not To Speak About It, Because Only When The Book Is Finished Can I Try To Understand What I've Really Done And To Compare My Intentions With The Result.

Something Must Always Remain That Eludes Us ... For Power To Have An Object On Which It Can Be Exercised, A Space In Which To Stretch Out Its Arms ... As Long As I Know There Exists In The World Someone Who Does Tricks Only For The Love Of The Trick, As Long As I Know There Is A Woman Who Loves Reading For Reading's Sake, I Can Convince Myself That The World Continues ... And Every Evening I, Too, Abandon Myself To Reading, Like That Distant Unknown Woman.