"There are no facts, only interpretations." ~ Friedrich Nietzsche "There is no intellectual exercise which is not ultimately useless." ~ Jorge Luis borges "All happy families resemble one another, each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." ~ Leo Tolstoy "It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams because they grow old, they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams." ~ Gabriel Garcia Marquez "A road goes up or down depending on whether you’re coming or going. If you’re going away it’s uphill, but it’s downhill if you’re coming back." ~ Juan Rulfo "Man has such a predilection for systems and abstract deductions that he is ready to distort the truth intentionally, he is ready to deny the evidence of his senses only to justify his logic." ~ Fyodor Dostoevsky I was filled with the marvelous certainty of being the first mortal, of feeling that my life was continuing to wear away, day after day, and that finally it would end some place or another, reiterating until the very end the destiny of some unknown dead man, nobody knows who or when, but me, was going to be really dead. ~ Julio Cortazar "...it’s also true that a writer’s homeland is not his tongue, or not only his tongue, but also the people he loves. And sometimes a writer’s homeland is not the people he loves but his memory. And other times a writer’s only homeland is his loyalty, and his courage. In truth, a writer’s homelands can be many, and sometimes the identity of that homeland depends a great deal on whatever he is writing at the moment. The homelands can be many, it occurs to me now, but the passport can only be one, and that passport is evidently the quality of his writing. Which does not mean writing well, because anyone can do that, but writing marvelously well, and not even that, because anyone can write marvelously well, too. What, then, is writing of quality? Well, what it has always been: knowing to stick one’s head into the dark, knowing to jump into the void, knowing that literature is basically a dangerous occupation. To run along the edge of the precipice: on one side the bottomless abyss and on the other the faces one loves, the smiling faces one loves, and books, and friends, and food. And to accept that fact, though sometimes it may weigh on us more than the flagstone that covers the remains of every dead writer. Literature, as an Andalusian folk song might say, is dangerous." ~ Roberto Bolaño Technorati Profile 
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