To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.

你不能戴着丝绒手套搞革命。

普罗旺斯语没有消亡；它沉睡在人们心中，等待被唤醒。

All men have the stars, but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travelers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than little lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems. For my businessman they were wealth.