Those Whose Suffering Is Due

A Language Which We Do Not Know Is A Fortress Sealed.

The Fixity Of A Habit Is Generally In Direct Proportion To Its Absurdity.

That Translucent Alabaster Of Our Memories.

When From A Long Distant Past Nothing Subsists After The Things Are Broken And Scattered, The Smell And Taste Of Things Remain.

When A Belief Vanishes, There Survives It -- More And More Vigorously So As To Cloak The Absence Of The Power, Now Lost To Us, Of Imparting Reality To New Things -- A Fetishistic Attachment To The Old Things Which It Did Once Animate, As If It Was In Them And Not In Ourselves That The Divine Spark Resided, And As If Our Present Incredulity Had A Contingent Cause -- The Death Of The Gods.