I Have A Painter's Memory.

When I Had A Few Francs, I Spent Them At A Café On The Place De Longchamps, A Block Or So From My Pension, Where I Could Order A Glass Of Beaujolais And A Plate Of String Beans In Vinaigrette For The Equivalent Of Fifteen Cents.

Words Are Nets Through Which All Truth Escapes.

Families Hold Each Other In An Iron Grip Of Definition. One Must Break The Grip, Somehow.

Freedom Is A Public Library.

A Lie Hides The Truth. A Story Tries To Find It.