There Are Few Men Who Know How

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

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.

Is Anything Sadder Than A Trainthat Leaves When It's Supposed To,that Has Only One Voice,only One Route?there's Nothing Sadder.except Perhaps A Cart Horse,shut Between Two Shaftsand Unable Even To Look Sideways.

Nothing Can Be Said: Nothing Sure, Nothing Probable, Nothing Honest. Better To Err Through Omission Than Through Commission: Better To Refrain From Steering The Fate Of Others, Since It Is Already So Difficult To Navigate One's Own.

Imagine Now A Man Who Is Deprived Of Everyone He Loves, And At The Same Time Of His House, His Habits, His Clothes, In Short, Of Everything He Possesses: He Will Be A Hollow Man, Reduced To Suffering And Needs, Forgetful Of Dignity And Restraint, For He Who Loses All Often Loses Himself.