A Story? No. No Stories, Never Again.

To Write Is To Make Oneself The Echo Of What Cannot Cease Speaking - And Since It Cannot, In Order To Become Its Echo I Have, In A Way, To Silence It. I Bring To This Incessant Speech The Decisiveness, The Authority Of My Own Silence.

The Disaster Ruins Everything, All The While Leaving Everything Intact.

As Reason Returned To Me, Memory Came With It, And I Saw That Even On The Worst Days, When I Thought I Was Utterly And Completely Miserable, I Was Nevertheless, And Nearly All The Time, Extremely Happy. That Gave Me Something To Think About. The Discovery Was Not A Pleasant One. It Seemed To Me That I Was Losing A Great Deal. I Asked Myself, Wasn't I Sad, Hadn't I Felt My Life Breaking Up? Yes, That Had Been True; But Each Minute, When I Stayed Without Moving In A Corner Of The Room, The Cool Of The Night And The Stability Of The Ground Made Me Breathe And Rest On Gladness.

We Can Never Put Enough Distance Between Ourselves And What We Love. To Think That God Is, Is Still To Think Of Him As Present; This Is A Thought According To Our Measure, Destined Only To Console Us. It Is Much More Fitting To Think That God Is Not, Just As We Must Love Him Purely Enough That We Could Be Indifferent To The Fact That He Should Not Be. It Is For This Reason That The Atheist Is Closer To God Than The Believer.

A Story? No. No Stories, Never Again.