It occurred to me that anyway one more Sunday was over that Maman was buried now, that I was going back to work, and that, really, nothing had changed.

Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being.

I am not made for politics because I am incapable of wanting or accepting the death of the adversary.

In fact, other people create for lack of power. I, on the other hand, do not need a work: I live.

I always found misogyny vulgar and stupid, and I found almost all the women I have known to be my betters. However, placing them so high, I used them more often than I served them. How does one make sense of this?

But the world itself has no reason, and I can say so, I who have experienced it all, from the creation to the destruction.

And it was like knocking four quick times on the door of unhappiness.