"We’re like a farmer working his land before the storm, walking down his fields with lowered head, knowing that the hail is bound to fall. And then, … - Georges Bataille

"We’re like a farmer working his land before the storm, walking down his fields with lowered head, knowing that the hail is bound to fall. And then, as the moment approaches, standing in front of his harvest, he draws himself erect and, as I now am doing" – with no transition, this ludicrous, laughable character became noble: that frail voice, that slick voice of his was imbued with ice – "he pointlessly raises his arms to heaven, waiting for the lightning to strike him – him, and his arms …" As he spoke these words he let his own arms fall. He had become the perfect emblem of some dreadful despair.