Perfection Belongs To Narrated Events, Not To

Each Of Us Bears The Imprint Of A Friend Met Along The Way; In Each The Trace Of Each.

The Bond Between A Man And His Profession Is Similar To That Which Ties Him To His Country; It Is Just As Complex, Often Ambivalent, And In General It Is Understood Completely Only When It Is Broken: By Exile Or Emigration In The Case Of One's Country, By Retirement In The Case Of A Trade Or Profession.

The Butterfly's Attractiveness Derives Not Only From Colors And Symmetry: Deeper Motives Contribute To It. We Would Not Think Them So Beautiful If They Did Not Fly, Or If They Flew Straight And Briskly Like Bees, Or If They Stung, Or Above All If They Did Not Enact The Perturbing Mystery Of Metamorphosis: The Latter Assumes In Our Eyes The Value Of A Badly Decoded Message, A Symbol, A Sign.

To Destroy A Man Is Difficult, Almost As Difficult As To Create One: It Has Not Been Easy, Nor Quick, But You Germans Have Succeeded. Here We Are, Docile Under Your Gaze; From Our Side You Have Nothing More To Fear; No Acts Of Violence, No Words Of Defiance, Not Even A Look Of Judgment.

Perfection Belongs To Narrated Events, Not To Those We Live.