I feel with my own mind, suffer my own terrible pains, believe only in myself, in my own deep sorrow. This sorrow that no one understands and that I love, that I love through hatred and contempt for the human lie.
I howl desperately, but in vain. My unrecognized cry is dispersed in the endless desert. It roars, it thunders, but the only response is a mournful echo.
Nothing turns for me. No one thinks of me. No one recognizes me. Nothing waits for me. Nothing breathes for me. Nothing aches for me. Nothing cries for me.
We are sure only in our verbal universe.
The philosophers’ originality comes down to inventing terms. Since there are only three or four attitudes by which to confront the world—and about as many ways of dying—the nuances which multiply and diversify them derive from no more than the choice of words, bereft of any metaphysical range.
We are engulfed in a pleonastic universe, in which the questions and answers amount to the same thing.