I have come with this message: since our gods and our aspirations are no longer anything but scientific, why shouldn't our loves be so too?
Every human occupation has it repertoire of stock phrases, within which every man twists and turn until his death. His vocabulary, which seems so lavish, reduces itself to a hundred routine formulas at most, which he repeats over and over.
Brunettes are full of electricity.
Thoughts and feelings change sometimes, as one crosses the frontiers.
Uncertainty is a quality to be cherished, therefore – if not for it, who would dare to undertake anything?
If our Gods and our hopes are nothing but scientific phenomena, then let us admit it must be said that our love is scientific as well.
I am a man who knows nothing, guesses sometimes, finds frequently and who's always amazed.
My own self-consciousness cries out to me coldly: how does one love zero?
There are some wounds that one can heal only by deepening them and making them worse.
Dead voices, lost sounds, forgotten noises, vibrations lockstepping into the abyss and now too distant ever to be recaptured!...What sort of arrows would be able to transfix such birds?
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