From her small, lonely window, she sees the man, young, on his bike, riding freely in the big city, not holding on to the handlebar, and ...

"I think of myself as somebody not at home, I suppose. Not at home anywhere, not at home ever. But I think of that as a definition of a w...

One can't write directly about the soul. Looked at, it vanishes. --- Virginia Woolf That's because the act of looking is the soul.

The long grey field is distinguishable from the long grey sky only by a shade. The shade has a number. The woman is sitting in front of t...

« Il n'existe que trois êtres respectables : Le prêtre, le guerrier, le poète. Savoir, tuer et créer. Les autres hommes sont taillables e...

The road led from one room to another. There were stairs between them, nothing horizontal, all skies. But in the new room, closer to the ...

There are Greek names – hermetic, austere, looking down on you from the complex layers of their statuesque psyche (though you know Greek ...

The scene is detailed, with odours, colours and textures approaching you, nearing your distant, modern, suddenly still world. The descrip...

"Where do you want to go?" she asked, as the Cathedral stood behind them, heavy and quiet. He didn’t know. So they walked aimlessly searc...