I Hope For Nothing. I Fear Nothing.

It Was Certainly Not This Mummified And Outrageously Painted Old Woman He Was Seeing Before Him, But The Entire "female Species," As It Was His Custom To Call Women. The Individual Disappeared, The Features Were Obliterated, Whether Young Or Senile, Beautiful Or Ugly - Those Were Mere Unimportant Variations. Behind Each Woman Rises The Austere, Sacred And Mysterious Face Of Aphrodite.

I Felt Once More How Simple And Frugal A Thing Is Happiness: A Glass Of Wine, A Roast Chestnut, A Wretched Little Brazier, The Sound Of The Sea. Nothing Else.

A Person Needs A Little Madness, Or Else They Never Dare Cut The Rope And Be Free.

Within This Arena, Which Grows More Stable Night After Day, Generations Work And Love And Hope And Vanish. New Generations Tread On The Corpses Of Their Fathers, Continue The Work Above The Abyss And Struggle To Tame The Dread Mystery. How? By Cultivating A Single Field, By Kissing A Woman, By Studying A Stone, An Animal, An Idea.

Three Kinds Of Souls, Three Prayers: 1) I Am A Bow In Your Hands, Lord. Draw Me, Lest I Rot. 2) Do Not Overdraw Me, Lord. I Shall Break. 3) Overdraw Me, Lord, And Who Cares If I Break.