A Story? No. No Stories, Never Again.

My Being Subsists Only From A Supreme Point Of View Which Is Precisely Incompatible With My Point Of View. The Perspective In Which I Fade Away For My Eyes Restores Me As A Complete Image For The Unreal Eye To Which I Deny All Images. A Complete Image With Reference To A World Devoid Of Image Which Imagines Me In The Absence Of Any Imaginable Figure. The Being Of A Nonbeing Of Which I Am The Infinitely Small Negation Which It Instigates As Its Profound Harmony. In The Night Shall I Become The Universe?

Lovers Of Painting And Lovers Of Music Are People Who Openly Display Their Preference Like A Delectable Ailment That Isolates Them And Makes Them Proud.

To Write Is To Make Oneself The Echo Of What Cannot Cease Speaking - And Since It Cannot, In Order To Become Its Echo I Have, In A Way, To Silence It. I Bring To This Incessant Speech The Decisiveness, The Authority Of My Own Silence.

As Reason Returned To Me, Memory Came With It, And I Saw That Even On The Worst Days, When I Thought I Was Utterly And Completely Miserable, I Was Nevertheless, And Nearly All The Time, Extremely Happy. That Gave Me Something To Think About. The Discovery Was Not A Pleasant One. It Seemed To Me That I Was Losing A Great Deal. I Asked Myself, Wasn't I Sad, Hadn't I Felt My Life Breaking Up? Yes, That Had Been True; But Each Minute, When I Stayed Without Moving In A Corner Of The Room, The Cool Of The Night And The Stability Of The Ground Made Me Breathe And Rest On Gladness.

A Story? No. No Stories, Never Again.