I Know Of One Semibarbarous Zone Whose

Translations Are A Partial And Precious Documentation Of The Changes The Text Suffers.

Time Is A Fire That Consumes Me, But I Am The Fire.

I Confess That I Have Not Cleared A Path Through All Seven Hundred Pages, I Confess To Having Examined Only Bits And Pieces, And Yet I Know What It Is, With That Bold And Legitimate Certainty With Which We Assert Our Knowledge Of A City, Without Ever Having Been Rewarded With The Intimacy Of All The Many Streets It Includes.

I Think Of Reading A Book As No Less An Experience Than Travelling Or Falling In Love.

In Fact I'm In Too Much Of A Mental Muddle To Know Where I Am - An Idealist Or Not. I'm A Mere Man Of Letters, And I Do What I Can With Those Subjects.