Query: How does the never to be differ from what never was?

Perhaps in the world's destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made. Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be. The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular. The silence.

See the child. He is pale and thin, he wears a thin and ragged linen shirt. He stokes the scullery fire.

Finally he said that among men there was no such communion as among horses and the notion that men can be understood at all was probably an illusion.

Every day is a lie. But you are dying. That is not a lie.

Ah me, thou Destiny, Giver of evil gifts.

It is supposed to true that those who do not know history are condemned to repeat it. I don't believe knowing can save us. What is constant in history is greed and foolishness and love of blood.