No One Can Keep His

Every Profound Dissatisfaction Is Of A Religious Nature: Our Failures Derive From Our Incapacity To Conceive Of Paradise And To Aspire To It, As Our Discomforts From The Fragility Of Our Relations With The Absolute.

Espousing The Melancholy Of Ancient Symbols, I Would Have Freed Myself.

When We Cannot Be Delivered From Ourselves, We Delight In Devouring Ourselves.

I Try--without Success--to Stop Finding Reasons For Vanity In Anything. When I Happen To Manage It Nonetheless, I Feel That I No Longer Belong To The Mortal Gang. I Am Above Everything Then, Above The Gods Themselves. Perhaps That Is What Death Is: A Sensation Of Great, Of Extreme Superiority.

Consciousness Is Much More Than The Thorn, It Is The Dagger In The Flesh.