God Is Dead. Marx Is Dead. And

To Me The World Seems Grotesque, Absurd, Ridiculous, Painful.

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.

Oh Righteous Doom, That They Who Make Pleasure Their Only End, Ordering The Whole Life For Its Sake, Miss That Whereto They Tend. While They Who Bid Stern Duty Lead, Content To Follow, They, Of Duty Only Taking Heed, Find Pleasure By The Way.

Banality Is A Symptom Of Non-communication. Men Hide Behind Their Cliches.

We Are All Looking For Something Of Extraordinary Importance Whose Nature We Have Forgotten; I Am Writing The Memoirs Of A Man Who Has Lost His Memory.