"I walked into my own book, seeking peace. It was night, and I made a careless movement inside the dream; I turned too brusquely the corner and I bruised myself against my madness. It was this seeing too much, this seeing of a tragedy in the quiver of an eyelid, constructing a crime in the next room, the men and women who had loved before me on the same hotel bed.
I carry white sponges of knowledge on strings of nerves.
As I move within my book I am cut by pointed glass and brokenbottles in which there is still the odor of sperm and perfume.
More pages added to the book but pageslike a prisoner's walking back and forth over the space alotted him. What is it alotted me to say?"
"Only the truth disguised in a fairytale, and this is the fairytale behind which all the truths are staring as behind grilled mosque windows. With veils. The moment I step into the caverns of my lies I drop into darkness, and see a mask which stares at me like the glance of a cross-eyed man; yet I am wrapped in lies which do not penetrate my soul, as if the lies I tell were like costumes.
LIES CREATE SOLITUDE
I walked out of my book into the paralytic's room."