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Nothing is more fleeting than external form, which withers and alters like the flowers of the field at the appearance of autumn.
Umberto Eco
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Umberto Eco
Age: 84 †
Born: 1932
Born: January 5
Died: 2016
Died: February 19
Essayist
Historian
Literary Critic
Literary Scholar
Medievalist
Novelist
Pedagogue
Philosopher
Screenwriter
Semiotician
Translator
Lissändria
Umberto Ecco
Umberto Eccounstino
Humberto Eco
Dedalus
Umberto Eko
Oumperto Eko
Eco Umberto
U. Eco
Form
Autumn
Nothing
External
Like
Flowers
Appearance
Field
Flower
Withers
Fields
Alters
Fall
Fleeting
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If you want to use television to teach somebody, you must first teach them how to use television.
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The lunatic is all idée fixe, and whatever he comes across confirms his lunacy. You can tell him by the liberties he takes with common sense, by his flashes of inspiration, and by the fact that sooner or later he brings up the Templars.
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I feel that I am a scholar who only with the left hand writes novels.
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Socrates ... did not write. It seems academically obvious that he perished because he did not publish!
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There is only one thing that you write for yourself, and that is a shopping list.
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All poets write bad poetry. Bad poets publish them, good poets burn them.
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As an adolescent I wrote comic books, because I read lots of them, and fantasy novels set in Malaysia and Central Africa.
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I enjoyed your article, but I preferred my own.
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Simple mechanisms do not love.
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I could work in the shower if I had plastic paper.
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Memory is a stopgap for humans, for whom time flies and what is passed is passed.
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The cultivated person's first duty is to be always prepared to rewrite the encyclopedia.
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The problem with the Internet is that it gives you everything - reliable material and crazy material. So the problem becomes, how do you discriminate?
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Reflecting on these complex relationships between reader and story, fiction and life, can constitute a form of therapy against the sleep of reason, which generates monsters.
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That day, I began to be incredulous. Or, rather, I regretted having been credulous. I regretted having allowed myself to be borne away by a passion of the mind. Such is credulity.
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Mystical additions and subtractions always come out the way you want.
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Every time that I write a novel I am convinced for at least two years that it is the last one, because a novel is like a child. It takes two years after its birth. You have to take care of it. It starts walking, and then speaking.
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There are two kinds of friendship: one is genuine affection, the other is inability to refuse.
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My father was an accountant and his father was a typographer.
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I consider always the adult life to be the continuous retrieval of childhood.
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