We imagine always when we speak that it is our own ears, our own mind, that are listening. - Marcel Proust

The idea that one will die is more painful than dying, but less painful than the idea that another person is dead, that, becoming once more a still, plane surface after having engulfed a person, a reality extends, without even a ripple at the point of disappearance from which that person is excluded, in which there no longer exists any will, any knowledge, and from which it is as difficult to reascend to the idea that that person has lived as, from the still recent memory of his life, it is to think that he is comparable with the insubstantial images, the memories, left us by the characters in a novel we have been reading.

در زمان كودكي سرنوشت هيچ كدام از شخصيت هاي كتاب مقدس بنظرم دردناك تر از روزگار نوح نبود،به سبب توفان كه او را در كشتي اش به مدت چهل روز زنداني كرده بود. بعدها اغلب روزهاي متوالي بيمار بودم و بايد در كشتي ام مي ماندم. ان گاه بود كه فهميدم نوح هرگز نمي توانست دنيا را به ان خوبي ببيند كه از درون كشتي ديده بود، هرچند كه فضائي دربسته و زمين را تاريكي پوشانده بود.

Ces jours uniques, ils se consument par l’usage, ils ne reviennent pas, on ne peut les vivre ici quand on les a vécus là.