SCRAPS FROM MY DIARIES AND NOTEBOOKS Poem by Harkaitz Cano

Bread, friends, wine. In that order. The first three words of Frankenstein's monster.

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So much fighting, so many squabbles, so many quarrels; so much literature and so much arrogance, round and round about everything; in the end, the Greek thinkers were right. Or worse: your parents.

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A loyalist Irish child, when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up: ‘A former prisoner'.

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Felt, one of Arthur Miller's characters: ‘A man can be faithful to himself or to other people - but not to both'.

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Wife to husband: ‘If one of us dies, I'll go live in Paris'. (Sigmund Freud's favorite joke).

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Another day wasted on public transportation: it's hard for me to tell on days like today if I am a writer or what they used to call a traveling salesman. The suspicion has taken root in my mind that the word writer is as outdated and obsolete as the word traveling. Make way for new predicates.

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The natural inclination of buildings is to not fall down (J.R. Amondarain).

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Experience is what you get, when you don't get what you want (Ratab Manzil).

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Sons and daughters are the continuation of war by other means.

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The most important piece not on the chess board: the jester.

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Your faith is limited and fragile, you say. But what faith is not limited and fragile? A faith that is not limited and fragile we would call by another name: naïveté, illusion, discipline.

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God helps the unconscious. Unfortunately, they don't know it.