Those Who Live, Live Off The Dead.

But How Is One To Make A Scientist Understand That There Is Something Unalterably Deranged About Differential Calculus, Quantum Theory, Or The Obscene And So Inanely Liturgical Ordeals Of The Precession Of The Equinoxes.

If I Commit Suicide, It Will Not Be To Destroy Myself, But To Put Myself Back Together Again. Suicide Will Be For Me Only One Means Of Violently Reconquering Myself, Of Brutally Invading My Being, Of Anticipating The Unpredictable Approaches Of God. By Suicide, I Reintroduce My Design In Nature, I Shall For The First Time Give Things The Shape Of My Will.

Enough, I Shall Be Understood In Ten Years By People Who Will Be Doing What You Do Today. Then My Geysers Will Be Known, My Ice Floes Will Be Seen, The Secret Of Adulterating My Poisons Will Have Been Learned, The Games Of My Soul Will Be Revealed.

There Is In Every Madman A Misunderstood Genius Whose Idea, Shining In His Head, Frightened People, And For Whom Delirium Was The Only Solution To The Strangulation That Life Had Prepared For Him.

Destroy Yourselves, You Who Are Desperate, And You Who Are Tortured In Body And Soul, Abandon All Hope. There Is No More Solace For You In This World. The World Lives Off Your Rotting Flesh.