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.
It is within you that the ghosts acquire voices.
A person's life consists of a collection of events, the last of which could also change the meaning of the whole, not because it counts more than the previous ones but because once they are included in a life, events are arranged in an order that is not chronological but, rather, corresponds to an inner architecture.
A classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say.
The universe is the mirror in which we can contemplate only what we have learned to know in ourselves
It is not the voice that commands the story: it is the ear.
A human being becomes human not through the casual convergence of certain biological conditions, but through an act of will and love on the part of other people.
You'll understand when you've forgotten what you understood before
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.
The ideal place for me is the one in which it is most natural to live as a foreigner.
The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what is already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together. There are two ways to escape suffering it. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become such a part of it that you can no longer see it. The second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the midst of inferno, are not inferno, then make them endure, give them space.
You know that the best you can expect is to avoid the worst.
Each sort of cheese reveals a pasture of a different green, under a different sky.
Whenever humanity seems condemned to heaviness, I think I should fly like Perseus into a different space. I don't mean escaping into dreams or into the irrational. I mean that I have to change my approach, look at the world from a different perspective, with a different logic and with fresh methods of cognition and verification.
The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls.
Memories images, once they are fixed in words, are erased.
Novelists tell that piece of truth hidden at the bottom of every lie.
In love, as in gluttony, pleasure is a matter of the utmost precision.
Nobody these days holds the written word in such high esteem as police states do.
A classic is a book which with each rereading offers as much of a sense of discovery as the first reading.
What harbor can receive you more securely than a great library?
Writing always means hiding something in such a way that it then is discovered.
They knew each other. He knew her and so himself, for in truth he had never known himself. And she knew him and so herself, for although she had always known herself she had never been able to recognize it until now.
The unconscious is the ocean of the unsayable, of what has been expelled from the land of language, removed as a result of ancient prohibitions.
Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears.
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