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To begin with, our perception of the world is deformed, incomplete. Then our memory is selective.
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Life is not only full of sound and fury. It also has butterflies, flowers, art.
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The most woeful ingredients of the Spanish civil war were its selfish motives, the hidden ambitions it served, the emphasis on hollow words used by both sides; it seemed to be a comedy - terribly bloody - but a comedy all the same.
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For me, the big chore is always the same: how to begin a sentence, how to continue it, how to complete it.
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To begin with, our perception of the world is deformed, incomplete. Then our memory is selective. Finally, writing transforms.
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There is no such thing as a 'real' representation of 'reality.' Except, perhaps, in algebraic formulae.
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Each time a writer or an artist 'tells' the world in an ever so slightly new fashion, it is changed.
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In general, I distrust philosophy. Plato recommended chasing poets from the city; the 'great' Heidegger was a Nazi; Lukacs was a communist; and J. P. Sartre wrote: 'Any anti-communist is a dog.'