Since I can remember I have been fascinated by books. No matter their subject they always presented themselves to me as worlds eager to be discovered. This is what good books do, what good literature does. They captivate and often present themselves imposingly to us. But books, poetry and their authors in a sense discover us too by making us active inheritors of what has been passed down in the form of story, our story. It seems to me when it comes to ultimate things, this story is far more similar than it is different, that ever-long search for meaning, the constant restlessness that leads us to question existence, to order hierarchically its most important things and even to posit the question of its transcendence. This in my opinion is the quest of any literary endeavour even if it can do no more than hint-at and provide glimpses and sketches of their ultimate answers. I suppose these are my own hints, glimpses and sketches, my own drawings on the proverbial napkin. This is how I see them. I hope at least some of them connect with you. In any case, I am grateful you are here.
César
