There Is No Language Without Deceit.

Photography Has A Meaning Only If It Exhausts All Possible Images.

The Lives Of Individuals Of The Human Race Form A Constant Plot, In Which Every Attempt To Isolate One Piece Of Living That Has A Meaning Separate From The Rest-for Example, The Meeting Of Two People, Which Will Become Decisive For Both-must Bear In Mind That Each Of The Two Brings With Himself A Texture Of Events, Environments, Other People, And That From The Meeting, In Turn, Other Stories Will Be Derived Which Will Break Off From Their Common Story.

You Are About To Begin Reading Italo Calvino's New Novel, If On A Winter's Night A Traveler.

The Struggle Of Literature Is In Fact A Struggle To Escape From The Confines Of Language; It Stretches Out From The Utmost Limits Of What Can Be Said; What Stirs Literature Is The Call And Attraction Of What Is Not In The Dictionary.

What He Sought Was Always Something Lying Ahead, And Even If It Was A Matter Of The Past It Was A Past That Changed Gradually As He Advanced On His Journey, Because The Traveller's Past Changes According To The Route He Has Followed: Not The Immediate Past, That Is, To Which Each Day That Goes By Adds A Day, But The More Remote Past. Arriving At Each New City, The Traveller Finds Again A Past Of His That He Did Not Know He Had: The Foreignness Of What You No Longer Are Or No Longer Possess Lies In Wait For You In Foreign, Unpossessed Places.