If A Writer Is Convinced That He

Sooner Or Later In Life Everyone Discovers That Perfect Happiness Is Unrealizable, But There Are Few Who Pause To Consider The Antithesis: That Perfect Unhappiness Is Equally Unattainable. The Obstacles Preventing The Realization Of Both These Extreme States Are Of The Same Nature: They Derive From Our Human Condition Which Is Opposed To Everything Infinite.

The Sea's Only Gifts Are Harsh Blows And, Occasionally, The Chance To Feel Strong.

The Trade Of Chemist (fortified, In My Case, By The Experience Of Auschwitz), Teaches You To Overcome, Indeed To Ignore, Certain Revulsions That Are Neither Necessary Or Congenital: Matter Is Matter, Neither Noble Nor Vile, Infinitely Transformable, And Its Proximate Origin Is Of No Importance Whatsoever. Nitrogen Is Nitrogen, It Passes Miraculously From The Air Into Plants, From These Into Animals, And From Animals Into Us; When Its Function In Our Body Is Exhausted, We Eliminate It, But It Still Remains Nitrogen, Aseptic, Innocent.

I Am Not Even Alive Enough To Know How To Kill Myself

For Me Chemistry Represented An Indefinite Cloud Of Future Potentialities Which Enveloped My Life To Come In Black Volutes Torn By Fiery Flashes, Like Those Which Had Hidden Mount Sinai. Like Moses, From That Cloud I Expected My Law, The Principle Of Order In Me, Around Me, And In The World... I Would Watch The Buds Swell In Spring, The Mica Glint In The Granite, My Own Hands, And I Would Say To Myself: "i Will Understand This, Too, I Will Understand Everything.