The river flowed from century to century, and human affairs play themselves out on its banks. Play themselves out to be forgotten the next day, while… - Milan Kundera

Love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory.

"She had an overwhelming desire to tell him, like the most banal of women. Don't let me go, hold me tight, make me your plaything, your slave, be strong! But they were words she could not say.

The only thing she said when he released her from his embrace was, "You don't know how happy I am to be with you." That was the most her reserved nature allowed her to express."

Culture is perishing in overproduction, in an avalanche of words, in the madness of quantity.