There Is Only One Class Of Men,

I Feel Like Getting Married, Or Committing Suicide, Or Subscribing To L'illustration. Something Desperate, You Know.

There Is In Me An Anarchy And Frightful Disorder. Creating Makes Me Die A Thousand Deaths, Because It Means Making Order, And My Entire Being Rebels Against Order. But Without It I Would Die, Scattered To The Winds.

But What Is Happiness Except The Simple Harmony Between A Man And The Life He Leads?

And Never Have I Felt So Deeply At One And The Same Time So Detached From Myself And So Present In The World.

Marxism Is Not Scientific: At The Best, It Has Scientific Prejudices.