In Reality, The Monotheist Texts Preach Neither

I've Lived So Little That I Tend To Imagine I'm Not Going To Die; It Seems Improbable That Human Existence Can Be Reduced To So Little; One Imagines, In Spite Of Oneself, That Sooner Or Later Something Is Bound To Happen. A Big Mistake. A Life Can Just As Well Be Both Empty And Short. The Days Slip By Indifferently, Leaving Neither Trace Nor Memory; And Then All Of A Sudden They Stop.

I Think That If Writers Don't Speak About Real Life, It's Because They Don't Know It.

Tenderness Is A Deeper Instinct Than Seduction, Which Is Why It Is So Hard To Give Up Hope.

Now Abideth Beauty, Truth, And Intensity; But The Greatest Of These Is Intensity.

It's A Curious Idea To Reproduce When You Don't Even Like Life.