Espousing The Melancholy Of Ancient Symbols, I

What Would Be Left Of Our Tragedies If An Insect Were To Present Us His?

Does Our Ferocity Not Derive From The Fact That Our Instincts Are All Too Interested In Other People? If We Attended More To Ourselves And Became The Center, The Object Of Our Murderous Inclinations, The Sum Of Our Intolerances Would Diminish.

Anyone Can Escape Into Sleep, We Are All Geniuses When We Dream, The Butcher's The Poet's Equal There.

Not One Moment When I Have Not Been Conscious Of Being Outside Paradise.

The More One Has Suffered, The Less One Demands. To Protest Is A Sign One Has Traversed No Hell.