Believe What Is Productive Is

The Work Of An Intellectual Is Not To Mould The Political Will Of Others; It Is, Through The Analyses That He Does In His Own Field, To Re-examine Evidence And Assumptions, To Shake Up Habitual Ways Of Working And Thinking, To Dissipate Conventional Familiarities, To Re-evaluate Rules And Institutions And To Participate In The Formation Of A Political Will (where He Has His Role As Citizen To Play).

Homosexuality Appeared As One Of The Forms Of Sexuality When It Was Transposed From The Practice Of Sodomy Into A Kind Of Interior Androgyny, A Hermaphroditism Of The Soul. The Sodomite Had Been A Temporary Aberration; The Homosexual Was Now A Species.

Life Itself Was Only Futility, Vain Words, A Squabble Of Cap And Bells.

Confined On The Ship, From Which There Is No Escape, The Madman Is Delivered To The River With Its Thousand Arms, The Sea With Its Thousand Roads, To That Great Uncertainty External To Everything. He Is A Prisoner In The Midst Of What Is The Freest, The Openest Of Routes: Bound Fast At The Infinite Crossroads. He Is The Passenger Par Excellence: That Is, The Prisoner Of The Passage. And The Land He Will Come To Is Unknown—as Is, Once He Disembarks, The Land From Which He Comes. He Has His Truth And His Homeland Only In That Fruitless Expanse Between Two Countries That Cannot Belong To Him.

Visibility Is A Trap.