The World Is A Heap Of People,

To Narrate Is To Give Oneself: It Seems Obvious That Literature, As An Effort To Communicate Fully, Will Continue To Be Blocked So Long As Misery And Illiteracy Exist, And So Long As The Possessors Of Power Continue To Carry On With Impunity Their Policy Of Collective Imbecilization Through The Mass Media.

I Am Not Particularly Interested In Saving Time; I Prefer To Enjoy It.

Reality Is A Magic Lady, Sometimes Very Mysterious. To Me She Is Very Passionate. She Is Real Not Only When She Is Awake, Walking Down The Streets, But Also At Night When She Is Dreaming Or When She Is Having Nightmares. When I Am Writing, I Am Always Paying Tribute To Her - To That Lady Called Reality.

The Poet, Distracted By Politics, Asks Of Poetry That It Make Itself Useful Like Metal Or Flour, That It Get Ready To Stain Its Face With Coal Dust And Fight Body To Body.

I'm Not Asking You To Describe The Rain Falling The Night The Archangel Arrived; I'm Demanding That You Get Me Wet. Make Up Your Mind, Mr. Writer, And For Once In Your Life Be The Flower That Smells Rather Than The Chronicler Of The Aroma. There's Not Much Pleasure In Writing What You Live. The Challenge Is To Live What You Write.