Something Unappeased, Unappeasable, Is Within Me.

Like Tourists Huffing And Puffing To Reach The Peak We Forget The View On The Way Up.

I Devote Myself To What I Love The Most, And For This Very Reason I Hesitate To Designate It With Lofty Words: I Do Not Want To Risk Believing That It Is A Sublime Compulsion, A Law, Which I Obey: I Love What I Love The Most Too Much To Wish To Appear To It As One Compelled.

Why Couldn't The World That Concerns Us- Be A Fiction? And If Somebody Asked, 'but To Be A Fiction There Surely Belongs An Author?'- Couldn't One Answer Simply: 'why? Doesn't This "belongs" Perhaps Belong To The Fiction, Too?'

There Is Always A Certain Noise In Applause: Even In The Applause We Give Ourselves.

The Text Has Disappeared Under The Interpretation.