“Nothing has changed. The body is susceptible to pain,It must eat and breath air and sleep,It has thin skin and blood right underneath,An adequate stock of teeth and nails,Its bones are breakable, its joints are stretchable.In tortures all this is taken into account.Nothing has changed.The body shudders as it is shudderedBefore the founding of Rome and after,In the twentieth century before and after Christ.Tortures are as they were, it’s just the earth that’s grown smaller,And whatever happens seems on the other side of the wall.Nothing has changed.It’s just that there are more people,Besides the old offenses, new ones have appeared,Real, imaginary, temporary, and none,But the howl with which the body responds to them,Was, and is, and ever will be a howl of innocenceAccording to the time-honored scale and tonality.Nothing has changed.Maybe just the manners, ceremonies, dances,Yet the movement of the hands in protecting the head is the same.The body writhes, jerks, and tries to pull awayIts legs give out, it falls, the knees fly up,It turns blue, swells, salivates, and bleeds.Nothing has changed. Except of course for the course of boundaries, The lines of forests, coasts, deserts, and glaciers.Amid these landscapes traipses the soul,Disappears, comes back, draws nearer, moves away,Alien to itself, elusiveAt times certain, at others uncertain of its own existence,While the body is and is and isAnd has no place of its own.”

“...They'd be amazed to hear that Chance has been toying with them now for years. Not quite ready yet To become their Destiny, it pushed them close, drove them apart, it barred their path, stifling a laugh, and then leaped aside. There were signs and signals, Even if they couldn't read them yet. Perhaps three years ago or just last Tuesday a certain leaf fluttered from one shoulder to another? Something was dropped and then picked up. Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished into childhood's thicket? There were doorknobs and doorbells where one touch had covered another beforehand. Suitcases checked and standing side by side. One night, perhaps, the same dream, grown hazy by morning. Every beginning Is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.”

“The body, then, has a mind of its own. It must follow, then, that the Mind has a body of its own, even if it’s like nothing that we can see around us, or have ever seen.”

“I'm old-fashioned and think that reading books is the most glorious pastime that humankind has yet devised.”

“The body is just the body. It has it's own structures, it's own laws. It's a thing unto itself. When it breaks down, that's it.”

“The buzzard has nothing to fault himself with.Scruples are alien to the black panther.Piranhas do not doubt the rightness of their actions.The rattlesnake approves of himself without reservations.The self-critical jackal does not exist.The locust, alligator, trichina, horseflylive as they live and are glad of it.The killer whale's heart weighs one hundred kilosbut in other respects it is light.There is nothing more animal-likethan a clear conscienceon the third planet of the Sun.”

“They're both convincedthat a sudden passion joined them.Such certainty is beautiful,but uncertainty is more beautiful still.Since they'd never met before, they're surethat there'd been nothing between them.But what's the word from the streets, staircases, hallways--perhaps they've passed by each other a million times?I want to ask themif they don't remember--a moment face to facein some revolving door?perhaps a "sorry" muttered in a crowd?a curt "wrong number" caught in the receiver?but I know the answer.No, they don't remember.They'd be amazed to hearthat Chance has been toying with themnow for years.Not quite ready yetto become their Destiny,it pushed them close, drove them apart,it barred their path,stifling a laugh,and then leaped aside.There were signs and signals,even if they couldn't read them yet.Perhaps three years agoor just last Tuesdaya certain leaf flutteredfrom one shoulder to another?Something was dropped and then picked up.Who knows, maybe the ball that vanishedinto childhood's thicket?There were doorknobs and doorbellswhere one touch had covered another beforehand.Suitcases checked and standing side by side.One night, perhaps, the same dream,grown hazy by morning.Every beginningis only a sequel, after all,and the book of eventsis always open halfway through.”