As we hurry along the sidewalk, we have the absurd sensation that we have entered still another department, composed of ingeniously lifelike streets with artful shadows and reflections – that our destinations lie in a far corner of the same department – that we are condemned to hurry forever through these artificial halls, bright with late afternoon light, in search of the way out.

Let no one tell me that childhood is lived in a timeless present. Rather it is a fever of futures, an ardor of perpetual anticipations.

This is the night of revelation. This is the night the dolls wake. This is the night of the dreamer in the attic. This is the night of the piper in the woods.

I expected no miracles; I wasn’t young enough for dreams; I knew in my bones that I couldn’t escape my troubles by changing the view from my window.

The sky surprised me. It was a deep blue, the blue of a sorcerer’s hat, of night skies in old Technicolor movies, of deep mountain lakes in Swiss countrysides pictured on old puzzle boxes.

Do you believe that the actor on the stage is really a villain? Let me ask you something else. If he isn’t a villain, then is he a liar?

The more the mouse pursues this line of of thought, the more it seems to him that the cat is a large, soft mouse.

I am often tired. I am sometimes discouraged. I am always sure.

Then solar systems, galaxies, supernovas, infinite space itself will become elements of a final masterwork – a never-ending festival, a celestial amusement park in which every exploding star and spinning electron is part of the empyreal choreography.

In the long dusks of summer we walked the suburban streets through scents of maple and cut grass, waiting for something to happen.