He Could Hardly Read Or Write But

Today I Think That If For No Other Reason Than That An Auschwitz Existed, No One In Our Age Should Speak Of Providence.

He Was A Physicist, More Precisely An Astrophysicist, Diligent And Eager But Without Illusions: The Truth Lay Beyond, Inaccessible To Our Telescopes, Accessible To The Initiates. This Was A Long Road Which He Was Traveling With Effort, Wonderment, And Profound Joy. Physics Was Prose: Elegant Gymnastics For The Mind, Mirror Of Creation, The Key To Man's Dominion Over The Planet; But What Is The Stature Of Creation, Of Man And The Planet? His Road Was Long And He Had Barely Started Up It, But I Was His Disciple: Did I Want To Follow Him?

This Is The Most Immediate Fruit Of Exile, Of Uprooting: The Prevalence Of The Unreal Over The Real. Everyone Dreamed Past And Future Dreams, Of Slavery And Redemption, Of Improbable Paradises, Of Equally Mythical And Improbable Enemies; Cosmic Enemies, Perverse And Subtle, Who Pervade Everything Like The Air.

In Order For The Wheel To Turn, For Life To Be Lived, Impurities Are Needed, And The Impurities Of Impurities In The Soil, Too, As Is Known, If It Is To Be Fertile. Dissension, Diversity, The Grain Of Salt And Mustard Are Needed: Fascism Does Not Want Them, Forbids Them, And That's Why You're Not A Fascist; It Wants Everybody To Be The Same, And You Are Not. But Immaculate Virtue Does Not Exist Either, Or If It Exists It Is Detestable.

Anyone Who Has Obeyed Nature By Transmitting A Piece Of Gossip Experiences The Explosive Relief That Accompanies The Satisfying Of A Primary Need.