I Am Alone In This White, Garden-rimmed

She Suffers As A Miser. She Must Be Miserly With Her Pleasures, As Well. I Wonder If Sometimes She Doesn't Wish She Were Free Of This Monotonous Sorrow, Of These Mutterings Which Start As Soon As She Stops Singing, If She Doesn't Wish To Suffer Once And For All, To Drown Herself In Despair. In Any Case, It Would Be Impossible For Her: She Is Bound.

You Must Be Like Me; You Must Suffer In Rhythm.

Is There Really Nothing, Nothing Left Of Me?

In A Country Lacking Leaders, In Africa, For Instance, How Could A Native Educated In Europe Refuse To Become A Professor, Even At The Price Of His Literary Vocation?

It Is Enough That One Man Hate Another For Hate To Gain, Little By Little, All Mankind.