memory is
A strange echo, which stores its replicas according to some other acoustic than consciousness or expectation




















We no longer believe because it is absurd: it is absurd because we must believe

















I realized that searching was my symbol, the emblem of those who go out at night with nothing in mind, the motives of a destroyer of compasses















What good is a writer if he can't destroy literature? And us... what good are we if we don't help as much as we can in that destruction?













Only in dreams, in poetry, in play do we sometimes arrive at what we were before we were this thing that, who knows, we are






Julio Cortazar