Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?
I don’t believe one reads to escape reality. A person reads to confirm a reality he knows is there, but which he has not experienced.
Words, the acid-bath of words.
He loved the desert because there the wind blew out one’s footsteps like candle flames.
Any concentration of the will displaces life and gives it bias in motion. Reality, he believed, was always trying to copy the imagination of man, from which it derived.
He hablado de la inutilidad del arte, pero no he dicho la verdad sobre el consuelo que procura.
God did not create us, nor did He wish us to be created. We are the work of a lesser deity, a demiurge, who wrongly believed himself to be God.