The Writer Is Committed When He Plunges

It Is Certain That We Cannot Escape Anguish, For We Are Anguish.

What Is Life But An Unpleasant Interruption To A Peaceful Nonexistence.

That’s What Existence Means: Draining One’s Own Self Dry Without The Sense Of Thirst.

He Walked On In Silence, The Solitary Sound Of His Footsteps Echoing In His Head, As In A Deserted Street, At Dawn. His Solitude Was So Complete, Beneath A Lovely Sky As Mellow And Serene As A Good Conscience, Amid That Busy Throng, That He Was Amazed At His Own Existence; He Must Be Somebody Else's Nightmare, And Whoever It Was Would Certainly Awaken Soon.

With Despair, True Optimism Begins: The Optimism Of The Man Who Expects Nothing, Who Knows He Has No Rights And Nothing Coming To Him, Who Rejoices In Counting On Himself Alone And In Acting Alone For The Good Of All.