Only In Dreams, In Poetry,

We No Longer Believe Because It Is Absurd: It Is Absurd Because We Must Believe.

Skill Alone Cannot Teach Or Produce A Great Short Story, Which Condenses The Obsession Of The Creature; It Is A Hallucinatory Presence Manifest From The First Sentence To Fascinate The Reader, To Make Him Lose Contact With The Dull Reality That Surrounds Him, Submerging Him In Another That Is More Intense And Compelling.

I Raised The Camera, Pretended To Study A Focus Which Did Not Include Them, And Waited And Watched Closely, Sure That I Would Finally Catch The Revealing Expression, One That Would Sum It All Up, Life That Is Rhythmed By Movement But Which A Stiff Image Destroys, Taking Time In Cross Section, If We Do Not Choose The Essential Imperceptible Fraction Of It.

Only By Living Absurdly Is It Possible To Break Out Of This Infinite Absurdity.

Why Have We Had To Invent Eden, To Live Submerged In The Nostalgia Of A Lost Paradise, To Make Up Utopias, Propose A Future For Ourselves?