You Must Be Afraid, My Son. That

This Desire [to Write] Is Rather Strange All The Same And Is Not Without A Certain "cracked" Quality.

I Suppose It Is Out Of Laziness That The World Is The Same Day After Day. Today It Seemed To Want To Change. And Then Anything, Anything Could Happen.

Ah! Do Not Judge The Gods, Young Man, They Have Painful Secrets.

When You Live Alone You No Longer Know What It Is To Tell A Story: The Plausible Disappears At The Same Time As The Friends. You Let Events Flow By Too: You Suddenly See People Appear Who Speak And Then Go Away; You Plunge Into Stories Of Which You Can't Make Head Or Tail: You'd Make A Terrible Witness.

Several Hours Or Several Years Make No Difference Once You Have Lost Eternity.