“J'aime les bouches sans venin, les cœurs sans stratagème.”

Any god worth believing in, believes in me too.

“Yet somewhere deep down a thin thread still ties us to that far-off misty Paradise, where Adam leans over a well and, unlike Narcissus, never even suspects that the pale yellow blotch appearing in it is himself. The longing for Paradise is man’s longing not to be man.”

“I needed to be reminded of mysterious and sacred things,”

“Les gens exigent la liberté d’expression pour compenser la liberté de pensée qu’ils préfèrent éviter.”

A special form of misery had begun to oppress him of late. There was nothing poignant, nothing acute about it; but there was a feeling of permanence, of eternity about it; it brought a foretaste of hopeless years of this cold leaden misery, a foretaste of an eternity ‘on a square yard of space.’

Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas.

I don’t want to wait for ‘the happiness of all.’ I want to live myself, or else better not live at all.

C'est fini pour aujourd'hui, monsieur l'Antéchrist.