The geometry of the things around us creates coincidences, intersections.

I take the book stopped at a fold, deliver myself to its pace, to the breathing of the other storyteller. If I am someone else, it's also because books move men more than journeys or tears.

After many pages you end up learning a variant, a different move than the one taken and thought inevitable.

I break away from what I am when I learn to treat my own life differently.

I read used books because fingerprint-smudged and dog-eared pages are heavier on the eye. Because every book can belong to many lives. Books should be kept in public places and step out with passersby who'll onto them for a spell. Books should die like people, consumed by aches and pains, infected, drowning off a bridge together with the suicides, poked into a potbellied stove, torn apart by children to make paper boats. They should die of anything, in other words, except boredom, as private property condemned to a life sentence on a shelf.

I can hardly keep track of the things I don't know, but every now and then comes an ignorance that makes me nostalgic.

Il y a des personnes à qui l'intention ne vaut rien, seul le hasard leur est propice. Le silence conservait à notre rencontre le bénéfice d'un événement fortuit. Il était la complicité requise. Celui qui la dévoile la fait disparaître. Je le sais, je n'ai pas le droit de déduire de telles considérations de si faibles indices [...]

يولد المجد من ثورة أناس قاموا في وجه الظلم كعاصفة تستمر ثلاثة أيام وتترك في الرئتين هواء نظيفا.