There Is A Time For Reciting Poems

Only In Chaos Are We Conceivable.

We're Artists Too, But We Do A Good Job Hiding It, Don't We?

We All Have To Die A Bit Every Now And Then And Usually It's So Gradual That We End Up More Alive Than Ever. Infinitely Old And Infinitely Alive.

Death, In The Eastern Tradition, Was Only A Passage. What Wasn't Clear ... Was Toward What Place, What Reality, That Passage Led.

For Her, Reading Was Directly Linked To Pleasure, Not To Knowledge Or Enigmas Or Constructions Or Verbal Labyrinths.