There May Be More Beautiful Times, But

For The Time Being I Have Seen Enough Of Living Things, Of Dogs, Of Men, Of All Flabby Masses Which Move Spontaneously.

What Never Vary Are The Necessities Of Being In The World, Of Having To Labor And To Die There.

I Committed The First Crime By Creating Men As Mortals. After That, What More Could You Do, You The Murderers? Come On; They Already Had Death In Them: At Most You Simply Hastened Things A Little.

We Are Possessed By The Things We Possess. When I Like An Object, I Always Give It To Someone. It Isn't Generosity-it's Only Because I Want Others To Be Enslaved By Objects, Not Me.

We Only Become What We Are By The Radical And Deep-seated Refusal Of That Which Others Have Made Of Us.