Yes, I read. I have that absurd habit. I like beautiful poems, moving poetry, and all the beyond of that poetry. I am extraordinarily sensitive to those poor, marvelous words left in our dark night by a few men I never knew.
La vie aura passé comme un grand château triste que tous les vents traversent.
Παλιά ξύλα καίγε, παλιό κρασί πίνε, παλιούς φίλους κράτα, παλιά βιβλία διάβαζε.
Can the knowledge deriving from reason even begin to compare with knowledge perceptible by sense?
I demand that my books be judged with utmost severity, by knowledgeable people who know the rules of grammar and of logic, and who will seek beneath the footsteps of my commas the lice of my thought in the head of my style.
O reason, reason, abstract phantom of the waking state, I had already expelled you from my dreams, now I have reached a point where those dreams are about to become fused with apparent realities: now there is only room here for myself.
Love is made by two people, in different kinds of solitude. It can be in a crowd, but in an oblivious crowd.
Light is meaningful only in relation to darkness, and truth presupposes error. It is these mingled opposites which people our life, which make it pungent, intoxicating. We only exist in terms of this conflict, in the zone where black and white clash.
