More and more, revolution has found itself delivered into the hands of its bureaucrats and doctrinaires on the one hand, and to the enfeebled and bewildered masses on the other.

A stranger to myself and to the world, armed solely with a thought that negates itself as soon as it asserts, what is this condition in which I can have peace only by refusing to know and to live, in which the appetite for conquest bumps into walls that defy its assaults?

Absurd- that is the light mind that establishes its own borders.

Empires and churches are born under the sun of death.

but perhaps we should love what we cannot understand

Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure.

Why must one love rarely to love well?