Blessed Be The Night, Which Conceals And

Every Novel Is Like This, Desperation, A Frustrated Attempt To Save Something Of The Past. Except That It Still Has Not Been Established Whether It Is The Novel That Prevents Man From Forgetting Himself Or The Impossibility Of Forgetfulness That Makes Him Write Novels.

We Are Finally Living In Plato's Cave, If We Consider How Those Who Were Imprisoned Within The Cave - Who Could Do Nothing But Watch Those Shadows Passing On The Back Wall - Were Convinced That Those Shadows Were Their One And Only Reality. I See A Profound Similarity To All This In The Epoch We're Now Living In. We No Longer Live Simply Through Images: We Live Through Images That Don't Even Exist, Which Are The Result Not Of Physical Projection But Of Pure Virtuality.

I Write To Try To Understand, And Because I Have Nothing Better To Do.

Men Are Angels Born Without Wings, Nothing Could Be Nicer Than To Be Born Without Wings And To Make Them Grow.

. . . If There Is A Way For The World To Be Transformed For The Better, It Can Only Be Done By Pessimism; Optimists Will Never Change The World For The Better.