No One Can Enjoy Freedom Without Trembling.

No One Recovers From The Disease Of Being Born, A Deadly Wound If There Ever Was One.

We Dread The Future Only When We Are Not Sure We Can Kill Ourselves When We Want To.

A Book Has To Dig Through The Wounds, More, It Has Cause A New One, A Book It Has To Be Dangerous.

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

Just As Ecstasy Purifies You Of The Particular And The Contingent, Leaving Nothing Except Light And Darkness, So Insomnia Kills Off The Multiplicity And Diversity Of The World, Leaving You Prey To Your Private Obsessions.