Indeed, The Direction Of The Future Is

The Owl Flies, In The Moonlight, Over A Field Where The Wounded Cry Out. Like The Owl, I Fly In The Night Over My Own Misfortune.

Inner Experience ... Is Not Easily Accessible And, Viewed From The Outside By Intelligence, It Would Even Be Necessary To See In It A Sum Of Distinct Operations, Some Intellectual, Others Aesthetic, Yet Others Moral. ... It Is Only From Within, Lived To The Point Of Terror, That It Appears To Unify That Which Discursive Thought Must Separate.

The Chaos Of The Mind Cannot Constitute A Reply To The Providence Of The Universe. All It Can Be Is An Awakening In The Night, Where All That Can Be Heard Is Anguished Poetry Let Loose.

Eroticism, It May Be Said, Is Assenting To Life Up To The Point Of Death

A Judgment About Life Has No Meaning Except The Truth Of The One Who Speaks Last, And The Mind Is At Ease Only At The Moment When Everyone Is Shouting At Once And No One Can Hear A Thing.