Without work, all life goes rotten. But when work is soulless, life stifles and dies.
Happiness is generous. It does not subsist on destruction.
Absolute freedom mocks at justice. Absolute justice denies freedom.
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.
No matter how the sun shone, the sea held forth no more promises.
All I maintain is that on this earth there are pestilences and there are victims, and it's up to us, so far as possible, not to join forces with the pestilences. That may sound simple to the point of childishness; I can't judge if it's simple, but I know it's true.