Nothing is ever lost; things only become irretrievable. What is lost, then, is the method of their retrieval, and what we rediscover is not the thing itself, but the overgrown path, the secret staircase, the ancient sewer.
The time will come when Winter will ask you what you were doing all Summer.
The freelance writer is a man who is paid per piece or per word or perhaps.
Language is a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to, while all the time…
I like this. Half the things in my flat are lost. Perhaps I need an interior lawnmower.
I want the ‘Collected Francois Aussemain’