How Good Would It Be If One

The Only Free Mind Is One That, Pure Of All Intimacy With Beings Or Objects, Plies Its Own Vacuity.

In The Hours Without Sleep, Each Moment Is So Full And So Vacant That It Suggests Itself As A Rival Of Time.

Each Time I Fail To Think About Death, I Have The Impression Of Cheating, Of Deceiving Someone In Me.

To Accomplish Nothing And Die Of The Strain

The Only Way Of Enduring One Disaster After The Next Is To Love The Very Idea Of Disaster: If We Succeed, There Are No Further Surprises, We Are Superior To Whatever Occurs, We Are Invincible Victims.