My Number Is 174517; We Have Been

It Is The Duty Of Righteous Men To Make War On All Undeserved Privilege, But One Must Not Forget That This Is A War Without End.

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.

My Number Is 174517; We Have Been Baptized, We Will Carry The Tattoo On Our Left Arm Until We Die.

I Have Many Times Been Praised For My Lack Of Animosity Towards The Germans. It's Not A Philosophical Virtue. It's A Habit Of Having My Second Reactions Before The First.

This Is The Most Immediate Fruit Of Exile, Of Uprooting: The Prevalence Of The Unreal Over The Real. Everyone Dreamed Past And Future Dreams, Of Slavery And Redemption, Of Improbable Paradises, Of Equally Mythical And Improbable Enemies; Cosmic Enemies, Perverse And Subtle, Who Pervade Everything Like The Air.