I Felt As I Hadn't

Once One's Up Against It, The Precise Manner Of One's Death Has Obviously Small Importance.

It Is Natural To Give A Clear View Of The World After Accepting The Idea That It Must Be Clear.

My Chief Occupation, Despite Appearances, Has Always Been Love.

All That Remains Is A Fate Whose Outcome Alone Is Fatal. Outside Of That Single Fatality Of Death, Everything, Joy Or Happiness, Is Liberty. A World Remains Of Which Man Is The Sole Master. What Bound Him Was The Illusion Of Another World. The Outcome Of His Thought, Ceasing To Be Renunciatory, Flowers In Images. It Frolics---in Myths, To Be Sure, But Myths With No Other Depth Than That Of Human Suffering And, Like It, Inexhaustible. Not The Divine Fable That Amuses And Blinds, But The Terrestrial Face, Gesture, And Drama In Which Are Summed Up A Difficult Wisdom And An Ephemeral Passion.

And It Was Like Knocking Four Quick Times On The Door Of Unhappiness.