I was born to be an editor, I always edit everything. I edit my room at least once a week. Hotels are made for me. I can change a hotel room so thoroughly that even its proprietor doesn¹t recognize it. . . . I edit people¹s clothes, dressing them infallibly in the right lines. . . . I change everyone¹s coiffure -- except those that please me -- and these I gaze at with such satisfaction that I become suspect, I edit people¹s tones of voice, their laughter, their words. I change their gestures, their photographs. I change the books I read, the music I hear . . . It¹s this incessant, unavoidable observation, this need to distinguish and impose, that has made me an editor. I can¹t make things. I can only revise what has been made.