If Life Is An Illusion It's A

On Sunday Morning I Went Out For A While In The Neighbourhood; I Bought Some Raisin Bread. The Day Was Warm But A Little Sad, As Sundays Often Are In Paris, Especially When One Doesn't Believe In God.

The Terrible Predicament Of A Beautiful Girl Is That Only An Experienced Womanizer, Someone Cynical And Without Scruple, Feels Up To The Challenge. More Often Than Not, She Will Lose Her Virginity To Some Filthy Lowlife In What Proves To Be The First Step In An Irrevocable Decline.

This Progressive Effacement Of Human Relationships Is Not Without Certain Problems For The Novel. How, In Point Of Fact, Would One Handle The Narration Of Those Unbridled Passions, Stretching Over Many Years, And At Times Making Their Effect Felt On Several Generations? We’re A Long Way From Wuthering Heights, To Say The Least. The Novel Form Is Not Conceived For Depicting Indifference Or Nothingness; A Flatter, More Terse, And Dreary Discourse Would Need To Be Invented.

A Source Of Permanent, Accessible Pleasure, Our Genitals Exist. The God Who Created Our Misfortune, Who Made Us Short-lived, Vain And Cruel, Has Also Provided This Form Of Meagre Compensation. If We Couldn't Have Sex From Time To Time, What Would Life Be? A Futile Struggle Against Joints That Stiffen, Caries That Form. All Of Which, Moreover, Is As Uninteresting As Humanly Possible - The Collagen Which Makes Muscles Stiffen, The Appearance Of Microbic Cavities In The Gums.

Love Binds, And It Binds Forever. Good Binds While Evil Unravels. Separation Is Another Word For Evil; It Is Also Another Word For Deceit.