The Curtain Of The Universe Is Moth-eaten,

Tyrants Are Always Assassinated Too Late. That Is Their Great Excuse.

Everything Turns On Pain; The Rest Is Accessory, Even Nonexistent, For We Remember Only What Hurts. Painful Sensations Being The Only Real Ones, It Is Virtually Useless To Experience Others.

A Sudden Silence In The Middle Of A Conversation Suddenly Brings Us Back To Essentials: It Reveals How Dearly We Must Pay For The Invention Of Speech.

Under Each Formula Lies A Corpse.

Our Works, Whatever They May Be, Derive From Our Incapacity To Kill Or To Kill Ourselves.