I'm A Libertine, But It's Not My

This Cell Belongs To A Brain, And It Is My Brain, The Brain Of Me Who Is Writing; And The Cell In Question, And Within It The Atom In Question, Is In Charge Of My Writing, In A Gigantic Minuscule Game Which Nobody Has Yet Described. It Is That Which At This Instant, Issuing Out Of A Labyrinthine Tangle Of Yeses And Nos, Makes My Hand Run Along A Certain Path On The Paper, Mark It With These Volutes That Are Signs: A Double Snap, Up And Down, Between Two Levels Of Energy, Guides This Hand Of Mine To Impress On The Paper This Dot, Here, This One.

The Aims Of Life Are The Best Defense Against Death.

If It Is True That There Is No Greater Sorrow Than To Remember A Happy Time In A State Of Misery, It Is Just As True That Calling Up A Moment Of Anguish In A Tranquil Mood, Seated Quietly At One's Desk, Is A Source Of Profound Satisfaction.

Imagine Now A Man Who Is Deprived Of Everyone He Loves, And At The Same Time Of His House, His Habits, His Clothes, In Short, Of Everything He Possesses: He Will Be A Hollow Man, Reduced To Suffering And Needs, Forgetful Of Dignity And Restraint, For He Who Loses All Often Loses Himself.

We Collected In A Group In Front Of Their Door, And We Experienced Within Ourselves A Grief That Was New For Us, The Ancient Grief Of The People That Has No Land, The Grief Without Hope Of The Exodus Which Is Renewed In Every Century.