Drama Lies In Extreme Exaggeration Of The

Childhood Is The World Of Miracle And Wonder; As If Creation Rose, Bathed In The Light, Out Of The Darkness, Utterly New And Fresh And Astonishing. The End Of Childhood Is When Things Cease To Astonish Us.

I Have No Other Pictures Of The World Apart From Those Which Express Evanescence, And Callousness, Vanity And Anger, Emptiness, Orhideous Useless Hate. Everything Has Merely Confirmed What I Had Seen And Understood In My Childhood: Futile And Sordid Fits Of Rage, Cries Suddenly Blanketed By The Silence, Shadows Swallowed Up For Ever By The Night.

In The Name Of Religion, One Tortures, Persecutes, Builds Pyres. In The Guise Of Ideologies, One Massacres, Tortures And Kills. In The Name Of Justice One Punishes...in The Name Of Love Of One's Country Or Of One's Race Hates Other Countries, Despises Them, Massacres Them. In The Name Of Equality And Brotherhood There Is Suppression And Torture. There Is Nothing In Common Between The Means And The End, The Means Go Far Beyond The End...ideologies And Religion... Are The Alibis Of The Means.

Logic Is A Very Beautiful Thing. As Long As It Is Not Abused.

For Me, It Is As Though At Every Moment The Actual World Had Completely Lost Its Actuality. As Though There Was Nothing There; Asthough There Were No Foundations For Anything Or As Though It Escaped Us. Only One Thing, However, Is Vividly Present: The Constant Tearing Of The Veil Of Appearances; The Constant Destruction Of Everything In Construction. Nothing Holds Together, Everything Falls Apart.