The Struggle Of Literature Is In Fact

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.

In Love, As In Gluttony, Pleasure Is A Matter Of The Utmost Precision.

Writing Always Means Hiding Something In Such A Way That It Then Is Discovered.

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

One Reads Alone, Even In Another's Presence.