An Enemy Who Sees The Error Of

We Who Survived The Camps Are Not True Witnesses. We Are Those Who, Through Prevarication, Skill Or Luck, Never Touched Bottom. Those Who Have, And Who Have Seen The Face Of The Gorgon, Did Not Return, Or Returned Wordless.

This Cell Belongs To A Brain, And It Is My Brain, The Brain Of Me Who Is Writing; And The Cell In Question, And Within It The Atom In Question, Is In Charge Of My Writing, In A Gigantic Minuscule Game Which Nobody Has Yet Described. It Is That Which At This Instant, Issuing Out Of A Labyrinthine Tangle Of Yeses And Nos, Makes My Hand Run Along A Certain Path On The Paper, Mark It With These Volutes That Are Signs: A Double Snap, Up And Down, Between Two Levels Of Energy, Guides This Hand Of Mine To Impress On The Paper This Dot, Here, This One.

Monsters Exist, But They Are Too Few In Numbers To Be Truly Dangerous. More Dangerous Are…the Functionaries Ready To Believe And Act Without Asking Questions.

Sooner Or Later In Life Everyone Discovers That Perfect Happiness Is Unrealizable, But There Are Few Who Pause To Consider The Antithesis: That Perfect Unhappiness Is Equally Unattainable. The Obstacles Preventing The Realization Of Both These Extreme States Are Of The Same Nature: They Derive From Our Human Condition Which Is Opposed To Everything Infinite.

Conquering Matter Is To Understand It, And Understanding Matter Is Necessary To Understanding The Universe And Ourselves: And That Therefore Mendeleev's Periodic Table, Which Just During Those Weeks We Were Learning To Unravel, Was Poetry.