I Have Not A Desire But A

The Art Of Living Has No History: It Does Not Evolve: The Pleasure Which Vanishes Vanishes For Good, There Is No Substitute For It. Other Pleasures Come, Which Replace Nothing. No Progress In Pleasures, Nothing But Mutations.

Flaubert Had Infinite Correction To Perform.

It Is Said That Mourning, By Its Gradual Labour, Slowly Erases Pain; I Could Not, I Cannot Believe This; Because For Me, Time Eliminates The Emotion Of Loss (i Do Note Weep), That Is All. For The Rest, Everything Has Remained Motionless. For What I Have Lost Is Not A Figure (the Mother), But A Being; And Not A Being, But A Quality (a Soul): Not The Indispensable, But The Irreplaceable.

I Think That Cars Today Are Almost The Exact Equivalent Of The Great Gothic Cathedrals: I Mean The Supreme Creation Of An Era, Conceived With Passion By Unknown Artists, And Consumed In Image If Not In Usage By A Whole Population Which Appropriates Them As A Purely Magical Object.

The Haiku Reproduces The Designating Gesture Of The Child Pointing At Whatever It Is (the Haiku Shows No Partiality For The Subject), Merely Saying: That!