We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?

How time flies when one has fun!

The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.

The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.

For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.

That passed the time. It would have passed in any case. Yes, but not so rapidly.

Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.