I Try To Busy Myself Elsewhere, To

Through The Mythology Of Einstein, The World Blissfully Regained The Image Of Knowledge Reduced To A Formula.

...what I Enjoy In A Narrative Is Not Directly Its Content Or Even Its Structure, But Rather The Abrasions I Impose Upon The Fine Surface: I Read On, I Skip, I Look Up, I Dip In Again. Which Has Nothing To Do With The Deep Laceration The Text Of Bliss Inflicts Upon Language Itself, And Not Upon The Simple Temporality Of Its Reading.

Even Hidden In The Most Squalid Parisian Halls, Wrestling Partakes Of The Nature Of The Great Solar Spectacles, Greek Drama And Bullfights: In Both, A Light Without Shadow Generates An Emotion Without Reserve.

Flaubert Had Infinite Correction To Perform.

For The Theatre One Needs Long Arms; It Is Better To Have Them Too Long Than Too Short. An Artiste With Short Arms Can Never, Never Make A Fine Gesture.