I have all the defects of other people yet everything they do seems to me inconceivable.
To act is to anchor in the imminent future.
We are born to exist, not to know, to be, not to assert ourselves.
Each of us is born with a share of purity, predestined to be corrupted by our commerce with mankind, by that sin against solitude.
What are you waiting for in order to give up?
Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?