What happens is that your wretched memory remembers the words and forgets what's behind them.

What happens is that your wretched memory remembers the words and forgets what's behind them.

Forms disappear, words remain, to signify the impossible.

There were epochs in the history of the humanity in which the writer was a sacred person. He wrote the sacred books, universal books, the codes, the epic, the oracles. Sentences inscribed on the walls of the crypts; examples in the portals of the temples. But in those times the writer was not an individual alone; he was the people.

In all nations an exceptional man exists that compensates the deficiencies of the remainder. In those moments, when humanity is found collectively in a state of decadence, there always remain those exceptional beings as point of reference.

Anyone who attempts to relate his life loses himself in the immediate. One can only speak of another.