There Are Mornings When All

Excluded By My Birth And Tastes From The Social Order, I Was Not Aware Of Its Diversity. Nothing In The World Was Irrelevant: The Stars On A General's Sleeve, The Stock-market Quotations, The Olive Harvest, The Style Of The Judiciary, The Wheat Exchange, Flower-beds. Nothing. This Order, Fearful And Feared, Whose Details Were All Inter-related, Had A Meaning: My Exile.

Every Premeditated Murder Is Always Governed By A Preparatory Ceremonial And Is Always Followed By A Propitiatory Ceremonial. The Meaning Of Both Eludes The Murderers Mind.

I Wanted To Swallow Myself By Opening My Mouth Very Wide And Turning It Over My Head So That It Would Take In My Whole Body, And Then The Universe, Until All That Would Remain Of Me Would Be A Ball Of Eaten Thing Which Little By Little Would Be Annihilated: That Is How I See The End Of The World.

It's A True Image, Born Of A False Spectacle.

Would Hamlet Have Felt The Delicious Fascination Of Suicide If He Hadn't Had An Audience, And Lines To Speak?