After The Age Of 50 We Begin

Literature Is ... A Game, But It's A Game One Can Put One's Life Into.

Memory Weaves And Traps Us At The Same Time According To A Scheme In Which We Do Not Participate: We Should Never Speak Of Our Memory, For It Is Anything But Ours; It Works On Its Own Terms, It Assists Us While Deceiving Us Or Perhaps Deceives Up To Assist Us.

The Modern Story Begun, One Might Say, With Edgar Allan Poe, Which Proceeds Inexorably, Like A Machine Destined To Accomplish Its Mission With The Maximum Economy Of Means.

Only In Dreams, In Poetry, In Play Do We Sometimes Arrive At What We Were Before We Were This Thing That, Who Knows, We Are.

Why Have We Had To Invent Eden, To Live Submerged In The Nostalgia Of A Lost Paradise, To Make Up Utopias, Propose A Future For Ourselves?