One Hardly Saves A World

As The Years Pass, The Number Of Those We Can Communicate With Diminishes. When There Is No Longer Anyone To Talk To, At Last We Will Be As We Were Before Stooping To A Name.

That History Just Unfolds, Independently Of A Specified Direction, Of A Goal, No One Is Willing To Admit.

Death Makes No Sense Except To People Who Have Passionately Loved Life. How Can One Die Without Having Something To Part From? Detachment Is A Negation Of Both Life And Death. Whoever Has Overcome His Fear Of Death Has Also Triumphed Over Life. For Life Is Nothing But Another Word For This Fear.

Nostalgia, More Than Anything, Gives Us The Shudder Of Our Own Imperfection. This Is Why With Chopin We Feel So Little Like Gods.

Hungarian Language — Savage It May Be But Of A Beauty That Has Nothing Human About It, With Sonorities Of Another Universe, Powerful And Corrosive, Appropriate To Prayer, To Groans And To Tears, Risen Out Of Hell To Perpetuate Its Accent And Its Aura…words Of Nectar And Cyanide.